Sing for Me
by maraudersforever81
Summary: Many things have changed during the four years that Erik has been absent from the Garnier; Christine is the newly engaged Prima Donna. But when he returns they both discover that some things are everlasting...
1. Chapter 1

"Mademoiselle Daaé!"

"Please, Mademoiselle! Just a quick word!"

"Brava, Brava!"

"_Merveilleux_! Ravishing performance!"

"Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle, please indulge us in answering only a few questions!"

Christine smiled at the people calling out to her as she dashed through the crowd lining the hallway to her dressing room. They pressed against the walls, jumping out to try and talk to her as she flew by. She tried to politely shake them off as she quickened her pace. They blocked the door to her dressing room, and she tried to push past them as respectfully as possible. She turned the brass handle and with one last grin, shut herself in. The grin fell from her face just as the door closed with a soft click.

She lowered herself onto a chair, not trusting her shaking limbs to support her for much longer. She passed a cool, clammy hand over her forehead and felt a wave of nausea overcome her. She closed her eyes, tried to steady her shuddering breaths, and attempted to ignore the churning feeling in her stomach.

_He_ was back. After four years, he was back.

She knew it. She could feel his presence emanating from box five. To anyone else the box had looked strangely empty—it was a full house after all, the audience occupied all seats but the ones in his box—but she knew he was there. She had felt his presence so strongly, it had closed in around her, suffocating her, the potency overwhelming her and she remembered so clearly how it had been four years ago when he had watched her every show. She remembered the thrill it gave her to know he was there, to feel him as she sang, to arrive at her dressing room and see a single slender rose. It seemed that she was thrown back to the time when she first took La Carlotta's place in Hannibal only four years ago…so much had happened in so little time.

After Erik had taken her to his home underneath the lake for the final time, when the Persian and Raoul had rescued her, no one saw him nor heard from him. There were rumors floating around Opera Garnier about him fleeing to the secluded mountains of Russia, or seeking comfort in the melancholy rainy days of Ireland, possibly even dying, but none of them had been verified nor unconfirmed. For a while, the actors, actresses, ballet rats, and especially the managers were fearfully waiting for his arrival which was bound to be dramatic and result in some sort of tragedy. But it never came. Within a few months, life at the opera relapsed into a busy but mundane hum that everyone was grateful for after the chaotic months caused by the Phantom.

Raoul was eager to start over and forget, while Christine had a rougher time forgetting all that had happened between her and Erik. Raoul wanted to completely start over and move away from Paris, but his father was nearing his last days so he and Philippe, his brother, stayed close to home. His father, the Count Philbert de Chagny however, did not approve of his engagement to Christine; in fact he was strongly against it. Christine as a mere opera singer, the daughter of a poor—but talented—violinist and would ruin the family name. He had never approved of her since they were childhood friends and the young pair had always played in secret. Raoul wanted his father's blessing, and Christine, not having a father of her own, had great respect for his need to please him. They decided to wait until he passed over. They wanted to marry badly, and although they wanted to respect his wishes after he was deceased, their love and marriage were more important. The most they could do was wait for the Count to perish. Raoul was the main author of this plan; Christine felt embarrassed and guilty just thinking about it not respecting his wishes. However, on his deathbed, the Count's heart softened and with his last words he imparted his blessing on the two of them. He had said, "A girl who could wait and put up with my cold-hearted prejudice was worth it, no matter what her social status was." A week later, Raoul announced their engagement. That was six months ago, and the couple was to be wed in merely three months' time.

Much had changed at the Palace Garnier as well. La Carlotta left after Christine was promoted to Prima Donna. Shortly after the Phantom left, the managers Firmin and Andre, tired of Carlotta's tantrums and drama, demoted her to a smaller role. Outraged, she fled in a flurry of flamboyant skirts and pearls, flinging her meaty hands about shrieking "Little Daaé! Hah! The girl couldn't sing the part half as well as I can! If my talent isn't appreciated here, then I will go somewhere where it is!" She returned to Italy. The height of her career was long gone, and she had a difficult time finding an opera house that would hire her for a leading role. La Sorelli retired early—early even for a dancer— to live with the Count Philippe de Chagny, leaving Meg Giry to take her place as prima ballerina. Life had been going well for Meg and Christine, the two remained close friends. Mlle. Giry had blossomed into a beautiful woman and was soon to become the Baroness de Barzabac. Madame Giry was still teaching the ballet rats and had not let old age soften her, as she was as firm as ever. Andre and Firmin were relieved after the Phantom's disappearance and continued to run the Palace Garnier. They led the opera house to much success.

It felt like those four years had never even happened now that the Phantom was back. The only question was…_why? _Before she could truly reason an answer, three sharp raps sounded on the door, followed by a tenor voice calling "Christine!"

She sighed inwardly. Raoul. She wasn't in the mood for company now, and wanted to be alone to think. Nevertheless, she opened the door and plastered a smile on her face for the Vicomte. He beamed back with perfectly straight white teeth and perfectly shaped lips that would charm ay girl, but Christine did not feel her heart beat any faster nor her smile grow larger.

She stepped out of the way and let him pass. Being the gentleman that he was, he politely took her hand and pressed a chaste kiss on it while never breaking her gaze.

"You were amazing, as usual," he commented with another smile.

"Thank you, Raoul," she replied automatically.

"A perfect finale for your career," he complimented.

Christine frowned, trying to decipher the meaning behind his words. "End of my career?" she reiterated quirking one eyebrow as she did so.

Both of his eyebrows shot up as he spoke. "Of course, you didn't think you would still have to sing when we are wed, did you?" he laughed and fondly patted her arm. "Darling, I am perfectly capable of making enough money for the two of us to live very comfortably," he explained with a slight edge to his voice.

"I know that," Christine frowned. "But that doesn't mean that I won't love performing as much as I do now. I want to sing."

"Love, you mustn't still perform when we are married. You will no longer be a poor actress, but a vicomtesse! You must think of our reputation, what will people think of you? Already there are some that are not proud of my decision—"

"Are _you_?" she cut in, twisting her engagement ring around her finger. "Am I worth the damage to your reputation?"

Raoul blinked at her a few times before hastily grabbing her hand and holding it fast in his. "No, Christine that was not what I meant…" he murmured comfortingly. "You know it's not. But you also know that our reputation is vital…whatever we have left of it," he ended in a bitter low voice. Christine knew he was alluding to Philippe, his brother who was turning into a drunk and a gambler.

She nodded half-heartedly. "I can't imagine my life without music," she said simply but poured her heart out in every syllable, hoping that he would understand. "I need to sing."

"You're tired, we can discuss this tomorrow when your eyelids aren't drifting close as I speak." He kissed her hand and parted with a fond goodbye. She watched him go through silently. He closed the door without a glance back. She sank onto her chair again, dropping her head in her hands and not feeling strong enough to head back to her small apartment that she had bought after the small increase in her salary.

She thought about the tense conversation that had ended moments before…not being able to sing. What would she do? Music was her life, singing was her air, and without it she would be suffocated in a world of stiff formal gatherings full of uncaring people who would forever look down upon her because of her background as an opera singer. What kind of life would that be? Would she be able to stand it for the rest of her days?

Pulling herself to her feet, she wrapped her cloak around her shoulders and pulled the hood up around the loose curls she had freed from the high tower that pins trapped them in during performances. She took one last glance around the room before setting out for home. Her eyes swept over the old familiar glass from which Erik posed behind as the Angel of Music, which he had opened and led her down and across the lake as the Phantom of the Opera. Her feet involuntarily crept across the floor towards the large glass. She pressed one hand to the cold glass, sweeping it along its smooth surface gently. She found the familiar point that would cause the mirror to pivot when pushed. Her fingers reached out, shaking, and pressed it. With a begrudging lurch, the mirror started to move, slowly due to years of neglect and idleness. She picked up the rusted lantern still hanging on a hook and lit it with an old unused match lying beneath it. The lantern cast an eerie glow on the cold stone walls, and despite the light it gave Christine still strained her eyes to see into the depths of the tunnels. She took a step forward, crossing the threshold between her world of light and day to the one of darkness and night.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: **To anyone who has this on their alerts list, I aoplogize for the broken link that got sent to you in the email. I would suggest going back to the previous chapter (chapter 1) and reading that before this or you might be a little confused.

Thanks for reading! Reviews are very much appreciated!

* * *

The tunnels were as dark and damp as Christine remembered them. She hardly had to strain her memory to recall the way to Erik's home. Her feet seemed to be moving with a mind of their own, as her mind was frantically trying to stop them. But they continued on, curious and wondering. She found herself at the edge of the lake, the water lapping gently on the stone shore. She lifted herself into the boat that seemed to be waiting for her and rhythmically rowed the small vessel across the still lake. It was silent, deadly silent, save for the sound of the water quietly teasing the side of the boat.

She knew that it was unlikely that anything beneficial would come from this, but her curiosity had the best of her. She wanted to know if Erik was _really_ here, or if she was just imagining things. But it would be nearly impossible to imagine what she had felt while she was singing only just that night. It must have been him. But she wanted to see for herself.

She reached the shore on the other side, climbed out of the boat, and saw that the door to his home was left carelessly wide open; the first clue that something was not right. Her pace quickened as she became worried for Erik, but not knowing why she was so concerned at the same time. She stepped into the sitting room of his home, the first room encountered when going through the door.

It was a mess.

There were broken vases and plates, a turned over table, crumpled up pieces of paper, and a canvas smashed in. Shards of glass were strewn across the room. A violin that laid on the table, left there haphazardly, was in danger of falling. Bottles of liquor dotted the room, some overturned and empty, the last of the drink dripping slowly onto the carpet. What had been untouched was covered in a fil of cobwebs and dust. And in the midst of it all was a mask-less Erik.

He stood in the center of the sitting room, suit coat and waistcoat in a crumpled heap on the floor next to him, cravat undone, and shoes kicked into a corner. His hair, which he usually wore off his forehead perfectly, had fallen down and strands hung on his brow. He clenched his fists, and his shoulders and limbs were stiff. His mouth was set in a firm line. His eyes betrayed the most emotion though. The golden hazel color was blazing, flashing, and they seemed to almost glow. It was frightening, seeing the opera ghost in all his rage and glory. It almost scared her, but she remembered that she had seemed him in even worse of a temper before.

They stared at each other for a moment before his lips parted. "_What_ are you doing here?" he said in a low, bass voice. She remembered clearly how beautiful his voice was, even when he was speaking, how it portrayed every emotion perfectly. Now, it matched his anger. Every word was low; the sound was dark, his voice stifling each word and covering it in velvet.

"I could be asking you that same question," Christine replied, trying to keep her voice steady when it wanted to waver. Her heart was racing and she would have been surprised if he could not hear it pounding against her ribcage. He looked at her intently for a while, his eyes guarded, bordering up the windows to his mind and thoughts. She stared back unflinchingly, bravely lifting her eyes to meet his own .

"Get out," he murmured in a deathly quiet vice that was frighteningly powerful at the same time. "_Now_," he added in the same fierce tone.

"No. I came down here to find out something, and I will not leave until I do," Christine bit back, urging her voice to sound strong even though she was shaking. She hoped he would attribute it to the cold. "Why have you returned?" she asked, the words ringing clear in the air after she spoke them.

"I owe you no explanation," he said defiantly.

"_Four years_," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Four years, and no one sees neither hide nor hair of you. We thought you might have been dead. And you arrive unexpectedly, for no reason? It is not possible. There must be some kind of rationale behind your appearance.

"I have already told you, I owe you nothing. Now leave," he commanded, taking one long threatening stride towards her. She cursed in her mind. His voice, so controlling, it took all her willpower not to obey and walk out the door.

"I am going nowhere until you give me an explanation."

"_Go."_

"I told you, I am not leaving until you enlighten me."

He looked at her for a moment and seemed to realize that she was not going to leave. He regarded her coldly, looking her up and down with his searching gilded eyes.

"I came back," he began, and she heard his voice waver slightly. This surprised her, for she was a master at concealing his emotions through a trained voice and barricaded eyes. "because I need you to sing for me."

This surprised her even more, and she couldn't find any words to say.

He continued. "These past four years I have toiled away, trying to finish one last work before I am content to die. My work has been fruitless. All my compositions have been inadequate, and try as I might I could not finish this piece. I cannot rest without finishing it. It eats away at my soul, and soon what little that is left will be gone. But Christine…if you sing for me, if you just lend me your voice until I complete it, I will be at ease to die. You will be able to forget about me, but if you do not consent, you will face years of my presence haunting these halls. Just finish this with me, and you can forget, move on with your new life…" he finished, and as the walls fell from his eyes she saw that the almighty Opera Ghost was pleading with her. He looked so broken, and just listening to him and hearing his heavenly voice she couldn't resist. He was pulling at her heartstrings. She was a marionette, a puppet at his disposal, and she caved.

"What must I do?" she asked.

His eyes lit up, shining with hope, before he blocked out all emotion. "Sing for me. Help me to get the opera to perfection. I will give you the score tomorrow. Of course, as for your payment…if you bring your music for the operas you are producing I will help you with those as I did before. Or if financial aid would be of assistance to you, I am—"

"No," Christine interrupted, shaking her head. "I don't want money. Just teach me again, and I will be satisfied."

He nodded curtly. "It is settled then. Tomorrow after your rehearsal I will be waiting behind the dressing room mirror. Don't be late."

She bobbed her head. "Goodnight, Erik."

"Goodnight, Christine…do you need me to escort you up?"

"No, I can find my way," she assured him. He raised the eyebrow on the unscarred side of his face. "Really," she insisted. "I'll be fine."

With that, she turned on her heel and left.

As she journeyed back to the world above, her mind was racing with thoughts. His appearance hadn't changed one bit. He was still tall and lanky, and she barely reached his shoulder. His face was the same; the familiar scars on one side of his face hadn't changed. The unblemished side of his face was still characterized by a high, sculpted cheekbone, a long, thin dark brow, flashing golden eye, and the lip that started there was perfectly formed. His hair was the same dark brown, near to black, and still pushed off his forehead. That was all unchanged. But his attitude towards her was completely different. He had been so passionate before, and now he was cool, apathetic, and indifferent. She knew she deserved it, but couldn't help but miss the life that had been so present in him before. Now he seemed corpse-like, not in the way of his face but his demeanor. He seemed so lifeless. It hurt her, seeing the drastic change, and knowing she was most likely the cause. She did not love him, no, but at the same time she could not hate him, even if she wanted to. Thus, she felt for him.

These thoughts filled her head as she continued her journey home. They occupied her thoughts as she tried to fall asleep beneath the thin blankets. The cold bit at her toes and nose and she curled into a ball to retain the fading warmth. The thoughts bound her, chained her, and did not free her to the much sought after peaceful arms of sleep until late in the night.

Christine spent the majority of rehearsal the next day thinking about what was to come after. Her lack of focus was evident. Her high notes were sharp and the sound was shrill. She forgot the repeat in measure thirty six, and a few of her lines slipped her memory. Reyer was not too pleased and expressed his feelings after rehearsal. She promised him perfection the next day. He let her off, knowing that it was not very often that Christine had a bad day and she was usually quick to get over her seldom off days.

She hurried to the dressing room, ignoring Meg's attempt to catch her eye as she scurried through the hallways to her dressing room. She let herself in and locked the door. Looking into the mirror, she took a deep breath. _Why am I doing this again?_ She found herself questioning why in the world she had thrown herself in this position once more. She could have left him alone by the lake in the dark without hope of her return, but she had promised to sing for him again. She supposed it was because he had her wrapped around his finger still with the compelling sound of his voice. She also couldn't stand to leave him there so broken. His eyes, oh how they had pleaded…and she had caved.

She stood there, seemingly alone with her thoughts, but she knew he had come.

"Erik?" she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper.

"I am here," he replied. His deep voice made her shudder involuntarily. She was quickly reminded about the power that it possessed, though she had never forgotten.

The mirror shifted unwillingly, uttering a high pitched screech as it did so. Erik stood behind. One hand was held out to her, garbed in his usual white silk glove, and the other held a lantern. It lit up the unmasked side of his face, illuminating the sculpted cheekbone and arching brow. Christine gingerly took the extended hand and he helped her through the threshold.

"Good evening," he greeted. Christine felt her knees go weak. "I trust your rehearsal went well? I was planning on sitting in on some of it but I was caught up in other engagements."

"It was fine, thank you," she lied. She was glad that he had been occupied; if he had watched from the shadows he would have been less than pleased.

He let go of her hand and she let it drop solitarily to her side. He led the way through the tunnels silently, the only sound to be heard was the soft swishing of his cloak and of her dress, and the thump of his shoes. They reached the lake and he leapt into the small vessel with catlike elegance. He held out his hand once more in a gentleman-like fashion. She accepted it again and stepped onto the boat with as much grace as she could muster with the full skirts of her dress, calling back whatever poise she had retained from her dancing days. He seemed to not mind that she stumbled slightly and his hand sprang to her lower back to balance her. Once she had regained her stability he quickly removed it.

He rowed expertly and the paddle slid through the water easily. Time lapsed as she stared at the murky lake, eyes unfocused. It felt like a dream or like she had been thrown back in time. It did not feel like the present. But the sound of the soft breaths emanating from Erik's lanky form folded up into the cramped seat behind her assured her that it was real.

They reached the shore and he got out and pulled the boat all the way onto shore, the hem of his pants teasing the surface of the water. His eyes lingered on her hand as he gently clasped it to help her out. He opened the door to his home and let her inside.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: Thank you all for the reviews, alerts, and favorites! It means a lot.

Their dark journey to Erik's home was over. It was so surreal that after four years he would be teaching her again.

"If you will hand me your cloak I will hang it up for you," he offered, holding out a gloved hand expectantly. She removed it from her shoulders and he took it along with his own coat to a hook. His nimble fingers freed themselves of the gloves and he lifted his fedora from its perch atop his dark brown hair.

"Shall we begin or would you like some tea?" he asked her.

"Tea would be nice," she admitted. "My throat has been sore today."

His golden eyes peered out at her sharply from behind the white expanse of his mask. "Are you ill?" he asked, his voice taking on a stern tone.

"No," she replied defensively. "The drafty air has simply irritated my throat. It is nothing to be worried about."

He gazed at her intently for a moment before sweeping off to the room she knew to be his kitchen to collect to the tea.

Her eyes took in the room around her. It seemed he had cleaned it up since the night before, but it still had the small bit of clutter that was usual for a bachelor to have. It was worse around his piano, sheet music flooding the top and floor next to it.

He entered the room again with a tray laden with tea and a wrap draped across one arm. He handed the wrap to her. "It tends to be quite chilly down here, I have grown accustomed to it but you will be shivering in a few minutes."

"Thank you," she murmured as she covered her shoulders with the warm fabric. She wondered why he would keep such a thing in his home when, as far as she knew, he was the only one who inhabited it. It occurred to her that a friend of his, perhaps the Persian, had married. Or maybe he himself had married. She dismissed the idea, he had been alone when she had found him last night and a woman's touch on his home would have been noticeable. It still appeared to be the abode of an unmarried man.

"What changes have come about since I was last here?" Erik asked suddenly. He sat opposite from her, cup of tea resting in one hand with long legs casually crossed.

She started, not expecting this chattiness from him. "La Carlotta has left," she began. She could not help but smile back when she saw the smirk that transformed his face. He looked so…different when he smiled. It was a rare event indeed. "When she left, the Palais Garnier started to flourish financially. Now there is hardly a night that is not a full house. Monsieur Firmin and Monsieur Andre are still the managers. Meg Giry has taken the place of Sorelli as Prima Ballerina. The leading male parts are usually given to Alonzo Bianchi," she finished, remembering with a grimace how he was the one who murdered Piangi.

"I assume you are the Prima Donna?" he asked after a sip of tea.

She nodded meekly.

"I see you are engaged?" he inquired lightly as if commenting on the weather, nodding to her hand which held her sparkling ring.

"Yes, I am to be married in three months."

"To whom?"

"Raoul, the Vicomte de Chagny," she replied, feeling embarrassed. She did not want to be discussing Raoul with Erik, the hatred that had run between them was immense.

He nodded stiffly, set down his cup and stood up abruptly. "I thought so. Are you ready to begin?"

She stood up as well. "Yes."

He strode confidently over to the piano. "A scale to warm up?" he suggested. She nodded and cleared her throat. The notes flowing from her mouth matched the accompaniment of Erik's playing on the piano. Their notes combined into one and she relished the feeling of singing with him again. She welcomed it with open arms.

Satisfied, Erik finished and rifled through his score. "This is what we're going to start in first," he instructed, handing her the music. Her eyes scanned it, noting the key and time signature, accidentals, and repeats. "Sing from measure thirty to forty-six. I'll make some adjustments then, and we will keep going from there until it is perfect."

Perfect. That was a tall order. She was ready to take it on though, and he gave her a free measure before coming in.

This part of the song was melodic, slow, melancholy. The notes were slurred, the phrases long, and the tempo was set at largo. It was beautiful really. The words were even more so, telling of a lonely lover who recently had her heart broken.

They stopped at forty-six. Erik's eyes remained trained to the sheet in from of him. When he finally turned them to her, they were full of so much passion, so much emotion. But he blinked and it was gone.

"That was decent," he said simply. "but not perfect. Give me that," he ordered, motioning for her to hand her the music. He took it and marked some things with black ink. Handing it back he said "From thirty again."

This continued for the whole rest of the night. She would sing, he would revise, and she would sing again. The piece slowly progressed to meet his high standards. Finally, after what seemed like ages, he was satisfied. "That will do for tonight. Tomorrow we tackle a much harder part, so come to your dressing room as soon as you can manage. It might take a bit longer. It is a quarter 'til nine, I suppose you would like to return to the world above? You don't want to keep your fiancée waiting."

Christine found herself blushing. "I was not planning on seeing him tonight," she admitted softly.

Erik seemed to straighten up a bit after that and his eyes brightened. "Oh. Well," he coughed. "I'll get your things."

She had to restrain a laugh as she watched the flustered Opera Ghost hurry away. It was a rare spectacle to see him confused and hear him stutter. He returned, having gained composure. They began their journey back to her world.

The rest of the week passed in a similar fashion; she would go to rehearsal with Reyer, hurry to her dressing room, and then Erik would work with her on first her music for the opera they were producing and then the music that he was composing. They were currently performing _Carmen_. Christine had the lead, and therefore quite a workload was placed upon her shoulders. But she was improving quickly in _Carmen_ and he was covering ground on his opera. The pair was determined to work hard.

Raoul had not detected anything the whole week. The slight purple hue that tinted the thin skin under her eyes from the lack of rest and sleep went unnoticed by him. He was quick to believe her excuses for coming home late. She prayed that whatever Erik had in mind wouldn't take too long. Although Raoul was self-absorbed, he was not stupid. He would catch on eventually. Then he would certainly not have mercy on Erik and either kill him himself or send someone to do the dirty work. Christine didn't know why she wanted to go to these lessons so badly, or why she was so concerned for Erik, but she knew that she definitely did not want Raoul to find out.

Meg was already suspicious. She knew she could trust her, and she had proved to be a faithful friend over the years. Meg wouldn't relay her secret to anyone else, but she still kept it to herself. Meg would think her crazy and unbelievably senseless to be putting herself in this position again. Maybe she was, but she needed help with _Carmen_ and he needed her to sing for his opera. So far he had not tried to harm her and had been polite, kind, and gentlemanly. So far, she had no reason to fear him…except all the terrors that he had given her in the past.

After five long days of rehearsal there were performances for the next three nights, leaving the daytime free of practice. Raoul took advantage of this and offered to take her out for dinner before tonight's show since she had been so busy the past few days. She agreed to go with him. She was looking forward to being able to relax a bit after the stressful week even if she would have to perform soon after. She did love to sing, but not the strain that goes with it.

Raoul was seated next to her with a charming smile across his face as he innocently asked her about her week. She had to restrain a laugh…oh, what he didn't know! She hid everything behind straight face and told him of all the progress they had made on _Carmen_ since the premier last week. He seemed to be listening, but she could tell his mind was elsewhere.

"What is troubling you?" she asked, wanting to know the reason for his glazed over eyes.

"Our future," he said. "Do you recall the discussion I had with you on opening night last week?"

She nodded, dreading the conversation that was to come. "Yes."

"I've been thinking about it and…I think it's in our best interest for you to retire before we marry…perhaps after the last showing of _Carmen_."

Christine was shocked. That seemed so soon, only two months. On top of that, she was hoping that Erik would let the Palais Garnier show his opera. No, she could not retire right after _Carmen_. At the very least, she had to sing Erik's opera. She had only seen bits and pieces and it was undeniably the best piece she had ever had the fortune to sing. But, of course, she couldn't tell Raoul this.

"It isn't set in stone yet; I have not yet talked to your employers. I wanted to have your consent before I did."

"Does it really matter what I want?" Christine asked brusquely, the words tasting bitter as they left her mouth.

"Of course, _mon cherie_," Raoul insisted. "Of course. But you must consider what it does to our name…a reputable Vicomtesse is not an actress. You should be spending your days in comfort, watching shows instead of starring in them, raising the beautiful children that we will have…you must want that…?"

She felt imprisoned just thinking about it, like a caged bird longing to spread its wings and be free. The rest of her lifetime, spent in stuffy rooms full of gossiping women who had nothing better to do with their lives then brag about their spoiled children and husbands. A world where there was nothing to work for, nothing to strive for, nothing to live for. A world without singing was…she couldn't even describe it. Singing was her life. That was something Raoul would never understand. He wouldn't be able to comprehend the hold music had for her no matter how many times she tried to tell him. It was something only Erik could relate to.

"Christine, it pains me to see you so torn! Think about all the freedom you will have when you do not have to work all day!"

She could have laughed had the situation not been so miserable. His definition of freedom and hers were completely opposite.

She finally spoke, "You are set on it then?"

He nodded solemnly. "Quite."

She suppressed a sigh. She had been looking forward to being a wife but now the position couldn't be more undesirable. As a wife her job would be to please her husband. Pleasing her husband meant retiring. It was as simple as that. She wouldn't have minded making Raoul happy, in fact she wanted to please him, but this was an exception. Then again, life was never promised to be perfect and easy. There were sacrifices to be made. Raoul wouldn't sacrifice their reputation so she must sacrifice her happiness to make their marriage work. She would have to learn to find joy in other things. Hopefully her love for Raoul would make it worth it. "Then," she said. "I will retire after the last performance of _Carmen_."

Raoul beamed and reached across the table to envelop her hand in his. "You are amazing, _mon cherie_," he praised. "I know how much this means to you."

Christine smiled back but it did not meet her eyes. If he really knew how much it meant to her he wouldn't put her through this.


	4. Chapter 4

Christine spent the rest of dinner picking at her food and listening to Raoul ramble about family matters. They had inherited quite a bit of money after his father's death, even though he was only the youngest of the Count's children. He was unsure of where to invest it; he had previously relied on his father's advice on matters regarding money. Philippe was no help. His addiction to alcohol caused him to be raucous in the evening hours, and unresponsive and melancholy in the morning. Raoul was worried about him and reasonably so. His bad habits worsened and there seemed to be no way to get him out of the black, deep hole that was his future. Their prospects seemed dark, but they had each other.

Their plates cleared away, the couple went on their way to the opera house. Raoul accompanied her to her dressing room before parting ways with a chaste kiss brushed on her cheek. Christine pushed all thoughts of her obscure future away and tried to transform herself into the beautiful gypsy she played in _Carmen_; the opera was to start in a little over an hour. She gladly accepted the assistance of the maids as they helped her into her intricate costume and piled the heavy stage makeup on her face. She cooperated as they drove pins into her hair and piled the heavy wig on top of her head. Meg and Jammes came into the bustling dressing room and the three wished each other luck as they did before every show.

As she waited for her entrance behind stage left, she heard a faint rustle behind her. She whipped around and tried to make out what lurked in the darkness behind her. Her eyes frantically swept the black expanse of old props but she could not make out any movement of something living.

"Be still. It is I, Erik."

She relaxed. "You had me worried," she admitted weakly.

He stepped forward from the shadows into the dim light. His tilted fedora hid his face and his mask covered what little bit that was visible. "I do not say good luck because you should not have to rely on good fortune to do well; it comes from _you_. You are very talented Christine, and I trust that you will stun them all. Remember what I told you about the aria. Keep your vibrato slight. Tune your voice to Bianchi's in the duet."

She nodded weakly, suddenly feeling more nervous knowing that he was watching.

He sighed and moved to place a hand on her shoulder but dropped his arm halfway through. "Just sing. You will do wonderful."

She recognized her cue to go on stage. "Thank you," she whispered with a fleeting smile. She saw the corner of the visible side of his lip quirk ever so slightly. He nodded in response.

She sang for Erik that night; sang to thank him for all the help he had given to her. She thought it might have been one of her best performances to date. She felt him there, felt his overwhelming and powerful presence. She put everything she had into that opera knowing that it was one of her last and that her teacher was watching. Those two motives caused her voice to flow perfectly. The crowd roared in approval as she reappeared after the curtain fell. Patrons lined the walls leading towards her dressing room. She smiled gratefully at them as she pushed her way through. Once in the solitude of her dressing room, she struggled out of her costume and unpinned her hair. As she placed the pins on top of her vanity she noticed a single slender rose. It stood out from the superfluous vibrant bouquets. She picked it up and ran one finger down the smooth stem and traced the velvety petals. She felt the corners of her lips tilt upwards; she knew it to be Erik's stamp of approval. As she donned her cloak and slipped on her boots she tucked the flower gently into her pocket. She yawned as she opened the door, eager to go home and fall into her bed.

She expected to see Raoul waiting for her since she had not seen him since they parted before the performance but was greeted with an empty hallway. She tried to think nothing of it.

"Christine," a voice called from behind her. She needn't turn around to know who it was. Only one person had such beautiful voice that they could make her name sound like a beautiful melody.

She turned and walked to meet him, her hand unconsciously reaching inside her pocket to finger the rose that she hid inside.

"I have never heard you sing so beautifully," Erik said. His deep voice seemed to coat each word in honey as the syllables dripped from his tongue. She felt her heart beat faster and her spirits lift considerably because of that one simple sentence. Erik was not one to lavish praise upon someone; he was quicker to point out faults. She could see that uttering that compliment had been a stretch for him. His golden eyes tore themselves from her and darted around the room nervously.

"Thank you, Erik. I—I sang for—"

"Christine!" this vice belonged to a different person entirely, namely her irritated fiancée. "Are you here?" Her wide eyes darted to meet Erik's.

"He doesn't know," she whispered. "I never told him about you and I, I know I should have—"

"There you are!" Raoul said rounding a corner. She glanced at him and then turned back to plead with Erik to leave, but he was already gone.

Her heart was pounding frantically against her ribcage at the notion of Raoul uncovering their secret. She forced a smile on her face.

"You were amazing, _mon cherie_. But why are you lingering back here?"

"I was talking to Madame Giry. She just left," Christine lied.

"Well then, let's be on our way then! There's no use hanging about here. I'll see you back to your apartment."

She nodded agreeably and the pair set off. Christine cast one lance glance over her shoulder to see Erik standing among the rubble of old props. He tipped his hat and vanished with a swirl of his cape. Christine allowed herself a small smile.

The next two performances went as well as the first. Erik attended them both and never failed to leave his customary rose but she never saw him. Monday arrived with a fruitful rehearsal. Afterwards she hurried to her dressing room and donned her cloak and boots. Erik was waiting for her outside the mirror.

"I don't think I ever got the chance to thank you for the roses."

He chuckled. "I'm surprised that you found it amongst the sea of blossoms."

She started at the sound of his laughter, jumping a little and pausing mid-step.

This caused him to laugh even more and the melodic sound echoed off the cold stone walls. "Did you not know that I am capable of laughter?"

She blushed and was thankful for the cover the darkness gave her. "I—no, you misunderstand me, I—"

"Do you remember the time when I gave La Carlotta the croak of a frog as her voice?" he asked, saving her from further embarrassment.

They both laughed at this and the sound fused to create a beautiful duet. "Quite clearly."

"I think it was more of an improvement than a regression."

She laughed even more and turned to meet his eyes which were shining with mirth. "She was quite the hit!" She reached up to pull her cloak further around her shoulders and her engagement ring glinted in the dim light, refleting brilliantly onto the dark wals.

Suddenly the smile fell from his face and he cast his eyes to the ground.

"We should hurry," he barked harshly. "We have much to accomplish tonight and you must want to return to the Vicomte."

"I am in no rush," she told him. He seemed not to hear her.

She was surprised at the abrupt change of his mood. His pace quickened, his brow furrowed, and his fingers curled up into fists. She wondered what she could have said to upset him but could think of nothing. After a moment she gathered the courage to speak.

"Are you alright, Erik?"

His eyes darted over to meet hers for a second. They seemed to be blazing with anger. "I am fine," he spat.

She lowered her eyes, baffled at this quick change of atmosphere. There had been laughter ringing from the walls and now a deafening silence took its place. She was almost running to keep up with his quick pace. When they reached his home they did not converse as they did most often, but he uncased his violin and rosined his bow briefly.

"There is nothing that you need to work on for _Carmen_ tonight. I have prepared something from my opera. It is a difficult passage. The emotion and rhythm are going to challenge you. Start from the pickup to twenty-two. I'll stop you when either you or I need to fix something. I do not think you will have to go far before I do."

She nodded timorously, trying to glance over the music before jumping into it. He gave her a free measure and she started in. She did not get through a measure before he stopped her.

"No, no, no. That's not right. Like this." And he sang it for her. His voice was so full of pure raw emotion that she felt her knees go weak and her head spin. She didn't know how he made it sound so _real_, like he was singing about himself. He finished and looked at her expectantly.

"You understand?"

She nodded mutely, dumbly, still shocked by his singing.

"From the pickup then."

She tried to copy his passion but could not reach his level of intensity.

"That's not right," he hissed. "Do you need for me to sing it again?"

"No," she replied hesitantly.

"Then get it right. Same place." She began and once again tried to match his emotion. He stopped her once more with a sigh.

"It needs to be perfect before I can make any corrections on the music. I need _your_ voice Christine, otherwise I would not have come back and put you through this. I know you have better things to do, but you agreed to this and the sooner you fix it the sooner you can leave."

His harsh words cut through her. She hadn't the faintest why he was so cross tonight. She was a little offended when he said that she didn't want to be here. If she wanted to leave she would, but she wanted to help and some appreciation would be nice. She welcomed cool indifference even more than his spite.

"If I wanted to leave, I would," Christine voiced her thoughts. "But I want to assist you. So here I am. I would like to be thanked for my efforts but it seems you are incapable of letting one kind word pass through your lips." She knew her words were a little harsh and she mentally chided herself for not filtering her contemplations.

"I am not going to lavish undeserved praise upon you when you have done nothing to earn it!" Erik snapped, the edge on his voice slicing through her. "The problem is not my heart but your lack of emotion."

"I apologize if I cannot sight read perfectly!" she cried indignantly, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

He sighed. "Try it once more. Try and think of someone or something that will help you to relate to the lyrics. Your father, the Vicomte—" this was uttered with a hint of spite—"anything that will help you to get it right. From the pickup."

She tried to focus on Raoul, to picture his smiling face and put the intensity of her affection for him into her vocal chords.

"Better," Erik admitted, stopping once again. "But not close to perfection. Again."

This time she thought of her love for her father. A different type of love, yes, but she would have to try different versions of the feeling until she found the right one.

They went a little further this time until he stopped her. "I don't _feel_ it, Christine. I've you heard sing with astounding passion before and it did not sound like this."

She lifted her eyes from her score to look at him from where stood next to her, towering above her small frame. His brow was furrowed and he was staring intently at the music, fingering through the music while his right foot served as a metronome by tapping a steady beat on the floor. He remained lost in the music for a moment before turning sharply to her when he noticed she was staring at him.

"Yes?" he snapped.

She started. "Oh—nothing. Nothing."

His eyes remained on her for a moment before returning to the music. "Once more from the pickup. If it still is not right after this time we will move on and come back to it another day."

He was quite irritated now. She had disappointed him.

A little innocent thought crept inside her head. What if she were to think of Erik? She pictured him and his music, composing it, singing it, playing it on one of his vast array of instruments. He was not someone she loved, but she could not think of anyone else to sing for and if she only had one more chance to sing it then why not?

He let her run through the whole entire song before he stopped her.

"I—that was—what did you do differently?" He asked, bemused.

A faint blush tinted her cheeks. "I sang for Raoul," she lied effortlessly.

He nodded. "That time it was perfect. He is a lucky man; that you would be able to sing so beautifully for him."

She nodded mutely, feeling even more ashamed. If he knew what she had really been thinking he would have been shocked, appalled.

They ran through it many more times, pausing for Erik to make some rearrangements in the score. All the while she pictured him in her mind. The time flew by quickly as they worked continuously on the piece. Without windows that showed the setting sun Christine didn't know how many hours she had spent underneath the opera house. Erik finally lifted the hem of his sleeve, revealing a gold wristwatch.

"You must be going," he said and began to pack up his violin. He crossed the room quickly with long strides and collected her things. His hands gently placed her cloak on her shoulders and they began the journey across the lake. She was silent for her mind was too preoccupied thinking about Erik and how she had sounded when she sang for him.

It wasn't right.

She should have sung like that for Raoul, not Erik. She was confused and afraid. She didn't have feelings for Erik, she was engaged to another man! But there was no denying that she had sung better for him.

She was bewildered.

She mentally shook herself and shook the matter to the back of her head. There must be a logical reason for this which she would uncover when her head wasn't fuddled from a long day.


	5. Chapter 5

AN: thank you for all the reviews and support! It keeps the words flowing.

"Christine! Are you listening to me?" Reyer demanded.

She started. "I'm sorry, monsieur."

He sighed. "Take ten so Mlle. Daaé can pull her head out of the clouds," he shouted to the cast. There was a fair amount of grumbling and a few actors and actresses sent glares her way, including Reyer.

"Christine!" Meg Giry called, scurrying across the stage to meet her. "What's going on with you today? You're acting like you're in a different world."

"I'm sorry, Meg," the Prima Donna apologized. "I'm a bit distracted, that is all."

"A bit!" Meg scoffed with an unladylike snort. "You seem _very_ scatterbrained today. What's on your mind?" she pressed.

Christine chewed on her lower lip, feeling torn. She wanted to relent to the hopeful look on Meg's face and tell her about her visits to The Phantom but at the same time she knew she could not. She didn't want anyone to know—and she hadn't even asked him if he wanted it to remain secret— but she knew the answer would be the same as hers. And then there was how she had sung so beautifully for him last night. Another cause for her absent-minded behavior was the conversation she had with Raoul not so long ago about the end of her career . That, she decided, she could relay to Meg. She had proved to be a good friend over the long years and she owed it to her after all she had done for her.

"Come with me," she bided. She led her friend to the back of the stage. Meg followed her obediently, a mix of confusion and anxiety distorting the pretty planes of her face.

Taking a deep breath, Christine blurted, "Raoul wants me to retire. Soon."

Meg's eyes widened and her hand flew dramatically to her mouth. "But surely you won't!" she gasped.

"I will. The last showing of _Carmen_ will be my final performance."

"But that's in only a little less than three weeks!"

Christine sighed. "It is soon," she admitted. "I was going to tell you but…"

"I know you would have told me," Meg dismissed the matter with a flippant wave of her hand. "I just can't believe you're retiring because he wants you to! I would have thought you wouldn't have submitted so easily."

"I'm only relenting because it is what's best for him and his name. An actress is not a reputable career, especially for a woman," Christine reminded her. "And it pleases him for me to retire. That is a wife's job, is it not?"

"You can't be serious Christine! You shouldn't let him push you around so."

Christine frowned. "I chose to retire. If I hadn't consented he wouldn't have forced to me to."

Meg raised an eyebrow. "But you don't want to retire."

"Yes and no," Christine admitted reluctantly.

"So don't let him make you think so!"

"He doesn't control me, my thoughts, or my actions! I am choosing to retire because it is what is best for him."

"But what about what's best for _you_? You are a part of this marriage too."

"I loathed the idea at first because I knew I would hate not performing," Christine confessed. "I knew that retiring wouldn't bring me happiness. But we cannot have everything we want in life. I chose to be married so I must make the sacrifices that come with that. I could have refused him and continued to sing, but I consented to marry him and I must act accordingly."

Meg sighed. "Oh, but if I could have just a drop of your wisdom! I am afraid that I will remain childish for the rest of my life."

"My wisdom is not desirable," Christine laughed, trying to lighten up the situation. "You are far from childish Meg, you have a strong head on your shoulders and a Baron to provide for you. You will be very happy," she assured her.

"It sounds like you're saying your goodbye's already!" Meg cried with a sad smile on her lips. "We will still see each other, won't we?"

"Of course," Christine affirmed with a smile. "We won't drift apart."

"Your ten minutes are up!" Reyer bellowed from the stage. "Ballet corps to stage left."

Meg parted with a brief goodbye. Christine started to hurry back to the stage when she heard a faint creak form the balcony above her. Craning her neck upward she scanned the rafters above her but saw nothing. She assured herself it was a stagehand and went back onstage.

The rest of rehearsal passed quickly and she succeeded in clearing her head from all thoughts of Erik, her career, or Raoul. She met Erik at the mirror as was custom.

"Are you going to be expected by your fiancée this evening?"

She frowned. "No…"

"I will take the liberty of keeping you late then. I understand we are on a very restricted time frame?"

"Excuse me?"

"You are retiring soon? In almost three weeks' time?"

Christine's jaw dropped. She hadn't the faintest idea how he knew, the only ones she thought had known were Meg and Raoul and neither of them were in contact with Erik. Regaining her composure she affirmed his speculations.

"The Vicomte thinks that his position is too great and that you would embarrass him; does he not?"

She felt her face heat up and her temper triggered. How harsh were his words! But she could not deny the truth behind them. "An actress is not an esteemed position," she replied, evading his question.

"Do not tell me that you willfully volunteered to retire."

She hesitated and then reluctantly shook her head.

He sighed, frustrated. "You cannot let yourself be swayed so easily by other people."

Her anger intensified. "I am not weak. I agreed to the situation. He didn't force me." She thought this conversation was rather redundant; like the one between her and Meg. She was tired of people thinking she was a pushover. She was strong. She was strong because she was giving up what she loved for her fiancée. She was sacrificing her happiness, and that was not weak.

Erik raised his eyebrows.

"I am not so selfish as to continue to sing and resultantly put our reputation at stake. I still tarnish their name even after retiring. I am going to do what it takes for our marriage to thrive, and if that means retiring, then I will retire."

Erik seemed stunned by her bold words.

"My life is not a fairytale. Some decisions that must be made are not desirable."

He still seemed surprised by the frankness and candor of her words. "I did not think that your situation was so serious."

"In that lofty society status is more than acceptance, it is a main factor of their livelihood."

"Forgive me, but I think it sounds rather shallow," Erik said cautiously.

"I could not agree more," Christine agreed with a slight smile. "It's ridiculous how they're consumed over money and appearance and superficial matters. They can be dull, easy to judge, and quite self-absorbed at times." she added.

"Then why are you doing this?"

"I l-love him."

"Love causes one to go to great measures. You must care for him very much if you are willing to trap yourself with such superficial people rather than sing at the Garnier."

She smiled weakly. "Yes, I do," she replied feebly.

They had reached his home by now.

"There is a bit in _Carmen_ that I would like to help you on that I noticed you struggled with during rehearsal today. Afterwards we will break and then start on my opera. It will be another long night. We will begin with an E major scale. _Commencer_."

They toiled through _Carmen._ The inflection was there but her technique, in some places, was not. Erik was meticulous, as usual, and accepted nothing short of perfection. They finally finished after some time and Erik went to prepare the tea.

"I really cannot believe it. Christine Daaé retiring to be a housewife. So much talent wasted." He shook his head as if it were a great loss and sat down into a chair opposite her. He folded one leg over the other and traced his finger around the rim of his teacup as he stared expectantly, bright eyes glistening from behind his mask in the dim lamplight.

"I never thought I would see the day either," she admitted.

"You won't be able to come here anymore, will you? Or," he added in a bitter undertone. "you won't want to."

"No," she assured him quickly, and without thinking she reached out to grab his hand. "Not at all." He tensed at the feeling of her touch. She felt the room suddenly grow colder and she shivered. He withdrew his hand and stood up abruptly.

"We should begin again; we haven't much time, and your next performance is in two days time."

Feeling embarrassed and awkward, she stood up and followed him back to the piano. She felt shy, ashamed at her rash, and uncalled for actions. She probably scared him, grabbing his hand as she had, and then he had gone back to music to avoid speaking to her. Not that she blamed him.

That night she realized that he was not as indifferent as she had believed him to be when she first saw him after those four years. He was truly concerned about her singing; he put just as much effort into helping her with _Carmen_ as he did with his opera. Moreover, he seemed to care about her wellbeing. He continuously asked about her health and was the air too drafty? During the past few days he also inquired if the managers were treating her well and respectfully, if she had any complaints about the Garnier, and if her apartment was suitable enough. Of course Erik was not a saint, far from one, and there were multiple times when his cruel behavior was uncalled for. But that was just part of what made him…_him. _Nonetheless, she was grateful for his kindness and regarded him as more than a teacher, as a good friend. She tried to give him the same benevolence in return.

She remembered how the occupants of the opera house had regarded him as such a powerful, frightening, and cruel figure—with reason. They only knew he was a murderer and that he had terrorized the Garnier—not to mention the outlandish rumors that spread like wildfire through the impressionable ballet rats. They had not had the opportunity to see his more gentle side like Christine had.

She was not stupid; she knew what crimes he had committed and she did not dismiss them. She was also well aware of what had happened between them those four years ago. But it seemed that he had moved on and that he only cared for her in merely platonic sort of way. He had been so disgusted when she had grabbed his hand—she felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment just thinking about her rash actions—that she was assured that he did not have feelings for her any longer. He needed her voice, that was all.

But she needed his instruction, so she was willing to put up with his temper and risk being around such a dangerous person. If he ever harmed her she would remove herself from the situation. But so far, he had given her no reason to.


	6. Chapter 6

AN: This is a good one :D Let me know how I did in a review if you don't mind! Thanks for all the feedback.

The next two days were performances and the day after, Sunday, was given to them to rest. Most of the cast went to visit family or spend the day in Paris. Christine, however, spent them with Erik, telling Meg she would be spending the day with Raoul and telling Raoul she would be with Meg and Jammes. She only hoped that they would not see each other in the city.

"We have accomplished much in the past two weeks. I will not hold you long today, so that you might be able to enjoy some of your time off," Erik said as he led her down the familiar dark tunnels to his home. "I won't hold you captive the whole day."

"I do not mind being here with you…I'd rather be rather be here than anywhere else today," she told him honestly.

The uncovered side of his face was ridden with surprise. His eyebrow climbed higher towards his dark hairline and he started after hearing her words. He regained his façade and muttered, "You are too kind."

"No," she insisted. "I do mean it. I have no wish to be anywhere else."

He spared her a glance. "Do not blandish me Christine. You need not resort to flattery to persuade me to let you leave. I have already learned that you do not like being with me, and I will try not to keep you too long."

She knew he was referring to what had passed between them those four years ago. She had been afraid of him—or not of him, but his power over her. It had left her feeling like she was a mere puppet. But now he was not in love with her and abusing his power, and she was no longer afraid. And then there were her own feelings; she had been confused, lost, and almost fancied herself in love with him. But she was engaged to Raul now. Free from all the fear and confusion, now she could enjoy his music and company.

Of course, she could not explain that to him, and he was stubborn and determined that she thought him insufferable, so she said no more. She only hoped that one day he would see that she regarded him as a friend, lost her fear of him, and that he would see her as the same. But judging by that dark look on his face, she knew that now he only tolerated her for her voice. For now, that would have to do.

"Today we are working on the duet between the two love interests," he announced, rifling through the music atop his piano for the score. "I will sing with you to assure that the harmonies are perfect."

She bit back a smile. She had only sung with Erik a few times but she treasured the memory very much. His voice was so faultless, so beautiful, and she considered it a great opportunity to listen to him, let alone sing with him. And when he sang with her, it enhanced her voice to sound much better.

She tried to contain her excitement and not let it show on her countenance as she nodded confidently.

He sat down at the organ, fingers poised above the keys. She always wondered how he managed to draw out so much beauty of such an ugly instrument. He looked at her attentively. "Are you ready?" She nodded. "Measure three then. You come in at twenty, am I correct?" Another nod. "I'll begin."

And he did. She wanted to close her eyes and relax in the bliss of his voice. The notes cascaded, the phrases were elongated, and the dynamics ebbed and flowed like the water of the ocean. He became lost in the music, and it seemed that he forgot she was there until she joined him in measure twenty. When their voices united he started, but recovered quickly and the music surged seamlessly. It was rather amazing, the way that their voices combined and sounded as one.

All too soon, the song was over. The last chord died from the organ and Erik slowly lifted his fingers from the keys. "That was good," he said weakly, standing up. "Allow me to make some adjustments." He took the score gently from her hands and immediately began to mark upon it with black ink. He did the same to his score on the organ.

"The organ is too overbearing. I will have to work on that part some other time. But for now we will sing a cappella." He presented her with the score again. He did not sit at the organ bench this time but stood next to her. "From three."

His voice sounded even more heavenly without the organ overwhelming the sound. Her head was spinning, her heart beating quickly, and could hardly focus on counting the measures that went by as she rested. She tried to collect herself as best as she could before measure twenty, knowing that if she did not Erik would not be pleased in the slightest.

Perhaps it was in that exact moment when their voices combined that she realized that she did not want to give this up, not ever. She did not want to retire. She did not want to be strong and move on from what she loved to do. This is what made her feel free, complete, and _happy_. And even more so, she did not want this to be one of the last times that she would ever hear the Angel of Music sing.

She looked at him to guide her through the _ritard _at the end, not knowing how slow he wanted it to be. He lifted his eyes from the music and looked back at her from behind his mask. The last notes fell from their lips and reverberated off of the stone walls. The sound faded away but he held her gaze.

What happened next was inexplicable to Christine.

She did not know how they had gotten so close. His face was barely a hands breadth from her own and she could feel his cool breath wash over her face. His gold eyes looked down at her with a plethora of emotions swimming in their depths—fear, confusion, and something else she could not quite name. The yellow lamplight created deep shadows under his cheekbones and temples; the left side of his face looked handsome in the soft glow. A strand of his dark hair had fallen from its hold off his forehead and now rested in stark contrast to his dark mask on his brow.

This was where things went terribly wrong.

Without knowing why, Christine reached up slowly to touch the porcelain mask. She ran one finger down the colorless material before delicately taking it off and setting it on the organ.

Erik remained shocked for a second, and many things happened at once.

He cried out in anguish and his hand sprang to cover his face. He turned abruptly away from her, but Christine spun him back around to face her. His expression was furious, his eyes flashing, and his lips twisted into a scowl. She could hardly remember him being so enraged before.

She looked at him for a moment, still holding onto his shoulders, and did something that she never knew the reason for, even years later.

She closed her eyes and crushed her lips to his.


	7. Chapter 7

His lips were still against hers and once they realized fully what had just happened they both sprang apart.

Erik looked just as furious as before—if not more. His hand clutched the right side of his face and his thin chest heaved as he raised a shaking hand to steady himself on the organ. The light now made his eyes look rabid and his person more ferocious. He looked murderous.

And for the first time in four years, Christine was reasonably scared of him. Recollections of the murders of Bouquet and Piangi filled her mind. With one fluid motion he could whip out his Punjab lasso and that would be the end of it. He did not need much to convince him to murder and she had never seen him so furious. She regretted coming back here, how could she have been so foolish? And what had come over her to _kiss_ him?

He advanced toward her as she took a step backward, tripping on the hem of her skirt. His hand was raised and ready to strike her. She was trapped, Erik on one side and the wall on the other. She held her breath and stared down determinedly at the ground, afraid to meet his blazing yes, and waited for her punishment to come.

After a few moments of anxious silence she looked back at him. Both arms hung harmlessly limply at his side, leaving his face exposed and the threat of him beating her was gone.

"_Go_," he hissed vehemently, raising an accusatory finger to point towards the door. She winced at the amount of fury and ire that filled his voice. Rage twisted his face. The disfigurements looked even more gruesome due to the resentment so plainly displayed on his visage. He did not have to tell her twice. She dare not tempt his temper farther than she already had. She knew he was quick to pull out his Punjab lasso and his fingers were undoubtedly itching to do so. If she stayed a minute longer she might not ever leave.

So without a backward glance she fled as fast as her heavy boots and full skirts would allow her.

Once outside the door she exited through the Rue Scribe, not trusting herself with the boat. She did not allow herself to think about what had just happened and only focused on getting out as fast as she could, lest Erik should decide to come after her.

Sometime during her escape she had started crying and the hot tears obscured her vision, causing her to trip and stumble along the way. Her dress had accumulated multiple rips and tears in the fabric. Some of her hair had tumbled out of her plait. She continued to stumble through the opera house, feeling more frantic as she heard the sound people started to return from their excursions. No one could see her like this—especially not either of the Giry's or Jammes. They would ask questions that she could not answer. She finally toppled into her dressing room and pulled off her tattered cloak and boots. She sat down on her vanity stool and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror atop her vanity.

Her reflection was unfamiliar. She saw a very confused, upset, and lost girl without any idea of what to do.

She had permanently ruined things with Erik. That was certain. There was no way she could face him after what she had done and she feared his temper too much to dare try to seek his forgiveness for her foolish and reckless impulse.

She sighed and rested her head in her palms; suddenly it felt too heavy to hold up. She closed her eyes and one very perplexing question drifted into her mind.

_Why had she done it?_

She was engaged to another man, for God's sake! She loved Raoul! It was inexplicable. She hadn't been thinking at all when she removed his mask and kissed him otherwise she wouldn't have done it. Perhaps it was the music, Erik's compositions were so powerful and moving that it could have led her to kiss him…or maybe her sanity was wearing thin after all the stress of working so much and the wedding preparations…or…

Or what if she really had feelings for him? That _was_ why one kissed someone, wasn't it?

But that was impossible. Erik was…Erik. He was more or less insane, had a horrible temper, and was a murderer. No, she was in love with Raoul. He was everything she had dreamed of as a young girl, the ideal husband; caring, charming, and charismatic. He had been loyal to her and she had kissed another man. She felt very ashamed and did not want to face him—did not want to face either of them. Raoul she could not avoid, but Erik she knew she would not see again. After her wedding she would ask him if they could start over, relocate, and leave all of this behind. It was all for the best.

She looked at the mirror, her portal between her world and Erik's, and saw that it had broken. She walked closer to see what could have caused it to fracture. Her image was distorted by the many cracks spanning the mirror's reflective surface. She searched the floor and area around the mirror and found nothing. She reasoned that it must have been broken from the other side and tried to open it the way that Erik had taught her, but it did not budge. It had shattered, just as their relationship had.

She felt hot tears sting at the back of her eyes again. She pulled on her wrap and slipped into her boots. She wanted to leave early to avoid seeing anyone. She longed to be in her flat away from all the nosy occupants of the Palais Garnier. They would undoubtedly inquire about her red eyes and disheveled appearance.

She walked through the crowded streets briskly, daring not to lift her face for fear that anyone should see the distress plainly written on her features. Once she arrived at her small flat she had a cup of tea and clambered into her bed even though it was only five in the afternoon. She lay there for a while as she waited for sleep to come and relieve her from the thoughts that filled her mind. The little sleep that she did get was very restless and she found herself awake more than asleep that night.

The next morning came far too soon for her liking. Rehearsals started again today. Reyer had slowly been decreasing the amount of practices, as they were already performing _Carmen_ and their performances had been almost flawless. This week would be the last one of rehearsals, and then the next few that would follow would only hold performances. Christine was grateful for this because that would mean that she could spend less time at the Garnier and more with Raoul. She looked forward to the busy wedding preparations to keep her mind off of things…specifically Erik.

She found it particularly hard to concentrate that day. During the past few days she had been rather distracted and Reyer had noticed. After rehearsal he cornered her on her way out. "I have observed that you have been distant these past two or three weeks. You are the Prima Donna; you have an important role to fulfill that requires work and concentration. Many other talented and assiduous girls would be glad to take your place," he warned her with a stern look.

"I am sorry, M. Reyer. I should not allow myself to be so distracted," she admonished herself.

"Mm," he said noncommittally. "Just remember that your position is not permanent."

"Yes, Monsieur. My apologies."

He nodded his head and brushed past her to go speak with Bianchi about costume fittings. She felt her heart plummet. Her understudy was talented and had improved very much in the past few months. She did not want to be demoted to a lesser role and let her understudy take her place during her last few performances. Reyer was not afraid of her nor of her admirers, bribery did not sway him, and he would replace her if he saw fit. She feared that he would replace her if she did not regain her focus. With all that was going on, she was afraid that she would not be able to put on such an impeccable façade.

That evening she dined with Raoul. He looked grave when he met her at the bistro.

"I am afraid that I must bring you bad news," he said grimly.

She sighed inwardly. She had had enough dire events in the past few hours. Nonetheless, she urged him to continue.

"Philippe gambled away all of his inheritance and the better half of mine as well. He had told me that he needed to borrow some money to invest in the business of a well-trusted friend who was on the verge of a great increase in sales. The name of the man was familiar to me and I remembered that our father had conducted business with him many years ago and that he was a respectable gentleman with a large establishment. He had seemed sober and serious when he asked me and promised to pay me back in full in a few months. The interest rate he offered me was high. It seemed like a good idea so I relented and gave him the money. That night he drank too much and gambled it all away. Now we have very little means. The wedding might have to be postponed, seeing as we have hardly enough to pay for the necessities...I am such a fool."

He looked at her with such sorrow, such regret that she couldn't find it in her her to admonish him for his foolishness to lend money to a drunkard. "We will get by," she promised him, although she was not so sure herself. "We have each other."

He snorted. "Love does not pay the bills," he snarled cynically. His face softened. "I am so sorry, _mon cherie_."

"I could continue to sing…it is not much, but it will help," she offered hopefully.

"No, no," he dismissed. "Our reputation is already close to being completely ruined." He sighed. "My mother has agreed to give us some assistance for a time but I do not want to exploit her offer too much. I have accepted a small sum to keep us going for a while. But we must act like there is nothing wrong and hope that the whole incident is not disclosed to many other people."

"What will we do?" Christine murmured, more to herself than to Raoul.

He smiled grimly and reached forward to grasp her hand. "I do not know," he admitted. The conversation was over, leaving the pair worried and distraught.

Merely a few weeks ago Christine's future seemed bright. She was at the height of her career and her era as Prima Donna seemed to be far from an end. She was happily engaged to a man who was very much in love with her. The Phantom was absent from her life, only a memory, and she was free from his bondage.

Now her prospects were obscure. Soon-far too soon for her liking-she would retire to a life of monotony without the music that she treasured. The threat of relegation that would taint her last days as an actress loomed over her head. Her wedding date was uncertain and her fiancée had lost a large portion of his capital. Erik had entered her days again, and this time she had relished his acquaintance. He had been so helpful to her, so kind, and he was the one who truly sympathized with her love for music. But she had ruined their relationship and he was gone for good.

Christine was miserable. During the days she was on the verge of tears and at night she let them fall freely down her cheeks. She tried to mask her wretchedness. Meg had seen through her façade and was constantly asking about her wellbeing. Christine was grateful to have such a friend but it only saddened her more when she realized she was being less than fair in return by not telling her what misfortunes had fallen upon her. She had noticed that Reyer had been talking to the managers more often and she frequently heard her understudy rehearsing the main role. She then felt compelled to put on impeccable performances but she could not always deliver them without the instruction from Erik that had helped her immensely earlier. Raoul was in a bitter mood all the time and hinted at having her retire even sooner. He had mentioned severing all ties with Philippe. This had astonished Christine; family was family. She had always thought him to be loyal to his family and had it been her own brother she would have helped him through his struggles, not leave him to his own destructive devices. Whenever she voiced these opinions to Raoul he would remind her unnecessarily about how important he believed status was. This was one thing she had to disagree with him on; she valued perpetual family more than wavering prestige.

She was lost, confused, and disheartened. The last time she remembered being this depressed after the death of her father she had the guidance of the Angel of Music. But now, she had not even him, and she was to blame of her loss.


	8. Chapter 8

Amelie Jardin was a petite girl of seventeen with flawless porcelain skin, large, almond shaped emerald green eyes framed with think lashes, and hair as dark as night. She had a beautiful soprano voice that she was able to manipulate to reach very high notes. She also was the understudy to the famous Mlle. Christine Daaé and she had observed that the Prima Donna seemed to have peaked. She now was constantly distracted, weary, and she seemed to have lost some of her passion for music. Amelie was an excellent observer of the human race and their emotions so even though Mlle. Daaé tried to conceal her unhappiness, and fooled many, Amelie perceived all.

Amelie was also a very ambitious girl. From the early days of her childhood she had always dreamed of being a Prima Donna. Her family, now deceased, had always supported her. Now that Christine's talent was waning, she knew she must take action to be promoted. Reyer had already spoken to her about possibly securing the next lead role—or maybe even replacing her in _Carmen_! But she knew that she must be active to get the role, she could not only _hope_ that things would go her way, she would need to assure her success _herself_.

And she would stop at next to nothing to realize her dream.

She knew that Christine was very talented. Some great teacher had taught her—but who he was, nobody knew. She wouldn't be able to surpass her by her singing alone, but something had been causing Christine to lose her focus. If she just added more to the list of things worrying her she would surely crack. Christine was not a good friend of hers but she did know a little about her. She knew that she was engaged to Raoul, the Vicomte de Changy, and he was a very wealthy patron of the opera. Amelie reasoned that he must have a great deal of money and come from a prestigious family. If she could ruin them and cause a fight between the pair Christine would certainly go to pieces…

Amelie was determined to be Prima Donna. She did not care what it took. She would secure her desire.

Over the past few days Christine had noticed that Raoul had taken to drinking more than usual. She often saw him with a flute perched in his hand that he always emptied. She knew it was the stress of the loss of money and she supposed that the alcohol helped to soothe his nerves, but she hoped that he was not turning into his brother.

He and his mother often talked of renouncing his Philippe. She thought the idea absurd but had little say in the matter. He would not even try to save him but let him continue down the dark path of an alcoholic. She thought this was cruel—heartless, even.

Upon reflection, Christine realized that Raoul had changed since the day he had rescued her red scarf from the sea. She supposed it was living in the real world and losing his father that had molded him into the more cynical figure that he was now. He was so different. He had once seemed so romantic, full of hopes and dreams for his future with her. Now he was slowly evolving into someone else…a strained businessman obsessed with his prestige, willing to disown his family to retain his standing. But he still loved her, so she clung on to the hope that after they got their money back the stress might melt away and he would be the same man she fell in love with years ago. She knew that his old personality was within him somewhere, but at the moment it was covered with a rough exterior.

Two weeks passed in the same fashion; Raoul anxious and short-tempered, Amelie scheming her sabotage, and Christine trying—but being unsuccessful—to forget the loss of Erik and not let her deteriorating life affect her performances.

Amelie was making progress in her ruse. She overheard Christine Daaé telling Meg Giry that she and the Vicomte had delayed their wedding. This interested her greatly, for when she had said it she had looked very anxious and worried and her voice had been Amelie hadn't heard of the intelligence before so she knew it was a secret. But why? There must be some rationale behind keeping it surreptitious. If she could only find out why and make the disclosed information available to the public then the couple would be put under even more sress.

She was not great friends with Christine—in fact she thought that the Prima Donna did not have the fondest feelings toward her. That was not without reason though, being very competitive she had most likely been a little too hostile towards her. Hence she knew that Christine would not confide in her, but if she could somehow overhear the couple talking then she might find the reason for the delay. Perhaps when the public knew they might even call off the engagement. She continued to watch Christine closely, watch her crumble under stress, and watch for the perfect time to eavesdrop on her and her fiancée.

One evening after a performance she saw the Vicomte hastily grab Christine by her arm and pull her in the direction of her dressing room. She quickly followed them, staying a safe distance far away from them but still close enough to track them as they pushed through the crowd. He scanned the area around the dressing room door before he pulled her inside. Amelie scurried to crouch outside the closed door. She pressed the side of her head against the wood and strained her ears to hear the voices within.

"…after much discussion mother decided she is going to disclaim him. It is final," she heard the Vicomte say.

"Raul, he is your _brother_!" Christine cried.

"Not anymore. We cannot be associated with a drunkard. It would be best to sever ties with him now before his situation is worse. Have you told anyone about the money?"

_The money!_

"Only Meg."

"I suppose she is trustworthy. Do not impart it on anyone else."

"Don't worry."

He sighed. "But when we renounce him there is no way we will get the money he gambled away back. Even if he sobers he will not be willing to repay us."

"Raul, there is help for him! But he will not recover without the help and support of family."

"Christine, don't you understand? Our reputation will be ruined if the public finds out that he is a drunkard and a gambler! We must sever ties with him now so that if they ever do find out we will already be separated from him and remain unscathed."

Amelie bit back a smile.

"Is that all you care about, Raul? How people perceive us? Why is it so important? Who care what they think?"

"I have told you Christine, it is much more than that. It is our livelihood!"

"Why don't you understand—"

"Why don't _you_ understand that this society is much different than yours?"

There was a heavy moment of silence, broken by Christine.

"When will you repudiate him?"

"As soon as we can get him sober enough and sign the papers to legally disown him."

"I have not always agreed with your decisions, but this is _sick._ You should be ashamed of yourself. Do you not see what you're turning into, Raoul? Are you blinded by your own narcissism?"

"No, I am merely trying to save what little respect we retained when I became your fiancé!"

Another moment of silence followed. This time Raoul was the first to speak.

"I am sorry _mon cherie_, that was uncalled for…oh, do not look so devastated!"

"I—I think I should go now. I am tired."

"Christine, wait—"

Amelie scurried to hide behind an old prop from _Don Juan_. Christine emerged from her dressing room with dewy eyes. Raoul was right behind her and reached to take hold of her arm.

"I am so sorry, Christine—"

But she shook him off wordlessly and hurried down the hallway alone. Her betrothed made no move to follow her but stood wretchedly watching her go with woeful eyes. He lingered there for a few moments until he dejectedly shuffled off in the opposite direction.

She had her information. Now she only had to divulge the secret. Amelie waited cautiously for a second before setting off for her own bed with a light heart.

Christine trudged to her flat slowly, burdened by a heavy heart. This was one of the worst nights she had had in a very long time. Her performance had been much less than admirable and box five had been packed full; Erik had not attended. He hadn't been to any of the shows since…that night, but before each Christine would allow herself to hope a little that he might appear. She did not know if he was still at the Opera House, but the mirror was broken and she was not quite sure where to enter the Rue Scribe so she had no way to find out.

The words that Raoul had said after the opera were still ringing through her head…_No, I am merely trying to save what little respect we retained when I became your fiancé_...did he regret his proposal? Would he break off the engagement?

Did _she _regret the engagement? Did _she_ want to break it off?

No, of course not. She loved Raoul…but it seemed so long ago when they were those two young people in love, free from the reign of the Phantom, and looking forward to their bright future. So much had changed since then—including herself and Raoul.

She wondered if her feelings had changed. She did not get that dizziness in her head when he entered the room, her heart did not beat any faster when he smiled at her, and she no longer felt her knees go weak at his touch. She saw not charm in his face but severity. She had once supported almost all of his decisions, but now she doubted the aptness of many of them.

She had fancied herself in love, but love was eternal and a very complicated, deep feeling. One could not stop loving someone, no matter what they did. It was unconditional. But infatuation decays with time and the change of either of the persons or the circumstances surrounding them can alter it. And as her feelings started to fade, she wondered if really she had ever been in love with him after all.

She shook her head and tried to rid her mind of the ridiculous thoughts. She loved Raoul.

The next day he took her out after that night's performance. He had entered her dressing room with arms overflowing with exquisite flowers and a wide smile brightening up his face.

"Once again, you were stunning," he praised her, setting down the flowers and picking her up to spin her around in her arms. She laughed, and realized that she couldn't recall the last time she had done so. He beamed down at her.

"Some of the patrons were raving about your voice."

Christine grinned playfully. "Did you boast about how that gypsy is your fiancé?" she asked teasingly.

"I—of course," he said, but his smile faltered.

Christine became skeptical. "You—you didn't tell them that we are engaged. You were too humiliated."

"No, Christine, I just didn't—they never asked—"

"A husband should not be ashamed of his wife!"

"I know, _mon cherie_, and I am truly sorry. They just never brought up your marital status or your personal life, but we did talk of your talent and I lavished praise upon the beauty of your voice.

"I am sure you applauded the actress on stage, but not your wife."

Raoul sighed. "I am so sorry. Please, let's not fight tonight. I brought wine and the night air is uncommonly warm. Let's go out on the rooftop where the stars are our only company and leave the world below," he offered, taking her hands and enveloping them with his larger ones.

A smile crept onto Christine's face, quirking the corners of her lips and lighting up her eyes. _This_ was the Raoul she fell in love with. "Let's," she said, already pulling him out the door. He followed her eagerly, chuckling. His deep laugh filled the halls as they flew past, ringing off the walls and filling her ears with the joyous sound. She felt like she was a girl again without a care in the world as she ran through the corridors and up the staircases.

They arrived on the rooftop breathless and rosy cheeked and opened the bottle of wine. The drink only reddened their faces and increased their giddyness. Christine kicked off her shoes and dangled her feet over the building ledge. She wished that Raoul could be like this all the time but tried not to dwell on his changing nature and just enjoy the night.

AN: Raoul can't be heartless all the time, then Christine would have no reason to still be engaged and no hope that he might ever return to his old lighthearted self. I hope that makes sense. Thanks for reading reviewing favoriting and all that good stuff!


	9. Chapter 9

Christine often wondered how Erik was faring. It had been almost three weeks since she saw him last. She didn't know if he was still lurking in the Garnier or had fled as he had before. Box five had been full during those three weeks and his presence was noticeably missing during all the shows. She supposed that was to be expected, and after what she had done she did not blame him in the least for leaving.

She still wondered why she had…_kissed_ him.

She pondered it often and still couldn't come up with a reasonable conclusion. She hadn't been thinking at all, obviously. She entranced by the music—they had been singing a love song, after all—and anything that Erik wrote was incredibly moving. She hadn't thought when she had done it; she had just inexplicably…imprudently…irrationally…_kissed _him.

And how she regretted it!

If she hadn't then he would still be teaching her and they would still be working together to revise his opera. Now she was uncertain of his whereabouts, she didn't even know if he was alive! His absence in her life was a drastic change; she had seen him daily for nearly a month.

She missed being able to disappear from the world for a while. While she was in his dwelling by the lake she forgot about all her quandaries and relished the luxury of having only to think about music. The stress melted away and she was able to relax.

She realized that she did not only miss his music, but Erik as well_. _Even though he had been quite indifferent at the start of their new relationship, he had warmed up a little at the end of the few months. He had been so kind to her, but he also had been determined to believe that she loathed him. She wished that she would had the chance to have a friendly relationship with him, but she knew that the prospects of that were very slim.

She now had much more free time, though she would rather be occupied composing with the Angel of Music. She spent most of it making wedding plans with Meg. Her wedding date was uncertain so she and Raoul had stalled the planning, leaving time for her to advise Meg. They had very few rehearsals now, they were only scheduled if Reyer determined the performance the night before to be unacceptable. _Carmen_ was proving to be a big hit and Firmin and Andre were discussing extending its run.

Needless to say, Christine had plenty of distractions.

But her thoughts seemed to always find time to wander to recollect the memories of her brief, but still existent, kiss with Erik. Christine had noticed that, in the very few times this occasion occurred, when she touched his skin, it was cold. Sometimes it had been frostier than ice, and others it had been only slightly cool. But when she had kissed him, it had felt like she was on fire. For those very brief two second while they were both trying to figure out what was going on, they had been standing in a raging inferno that engulfed the two of them and set them aflame.

And no matter how much she tried to convince herself that it had been wrong, it had felt so…so…so _right_.

She was so confused. She recalled trying to apply the right kind of longing, affectionate, passionate, emotion into one of Erik's ballads. He had told her to picture someone she loved while singing, to think of why she loved them, to sing _for _them. She had thought of him and his music, and the melodies that came out of her mouth had been rapturous. When she kissed him she felt like she was suffocating in Hades—but the pain brought so much pleasure.

When she pecked Raoul it was sweet and tender, but in those fleeting moments that she had kissed Erik it had felt like nothing she had ever experienced…her heart had been threatening to burst through her ribcage, her head was throbbing, her whole body engulfed in flames, and the feeling of his lips on hers had given her a sensation more penetrating than electrocution.

_That_, Christine knew, was _not_ supposed to happen with your tutor.

Amelie Jardin was very skilled at planning. Before putting her schemes into action she always needed to be completely positive that they would perfectly give her the desired results. So she did not mind taking her time to perfect her arrangements. She knew if she did not take great care to do so her schemes could very likely backfire on her if there was an overlooked loophole or forgotten detail that she left out of the strategies. That is why for the next few days after she gathered her necessary information about the de Chagny's family drama she thought only of the most efficient way to convey that information to the public—without getting caught.

It proved to be quite difficult. She wanted to remain innocent but still relay the gossip herself to ensure that it was told just how she wanted it. She also wanted to make sure that it got around to Christine, her fiancé, and his family_ fully intact_ so that they could not dismiss it as a fabricated rumor and wouldn't be able to deny its verity. With all these factors to consider it was proving to be rather challenging, but she knew that it would be more than worth it once _she_ had the spotlight.

After careful consideration she decided to tell Marie Bellerose her findings. Marie was a member of the corps de ballet, who was generally well-liked among the other rats and always seemed to know all the affairs of the occupants of the Palais Garnier. The rats, chorus girls, and other rumormongers relied on her hearsay for it was usually more or less accurate. She would tell Marie that Meg Giry had confided in her a scandal about Christie Daaé. This way the blame would be removed from her shoulders and placed on Meg's, and she would be an innocent blabbermouth who was merely fond of gossip. It would be believable, as everyone knew that Meg and Christine were close friends and confidants. And additionally it would cause a rift in the two friends' relationship once Christine heard that Meg had been the one to reveal the scandal, causing Christine even more distress. Christine had told Meg about the situation, after all, so she would have no reason to believe that Meg hadn't betrayed her.

She felt confident in the success of her ploy, and was eager to carry it out and see its devastating effects. She was sorry to hurt Christine, as she seemed like an honest and kind girl who was already going through a difficult time. But she wasn't going to let her conscience get the best of her. No one ever said this business was fair.

She decided on the right morning to employ her intrigue. It was some days after the overheard conversation between Christine and Raoul, but not so late that they had already disowned Philippe. Her acting skills would need to be at their best for this performance or all of her plans would be ruined. She tried to act as calm and normal as possible and keep an impeccable façade. After giving the room a brief once over, she spotted Marie talking to a group of ballet rats as they began stretching. Reyer called all the corps and chorus girls together to rehearse act two scenes five and six which had been admittedly rather atrocious the night before. They stood in their positions as they waited for Reyer to finish his conversation with Madame Giry about the choreography. Luckily, she stood right in front of Marie.

She was about to turn around and begin her dialogue with Marie she heard a faint whisper echo around the room.

"_Sweet Amelie, dare you betray your friend? Dare you be so ruthless?_"

She started, eyes wide, and searched frantically around the room for the narrator of that chilling question, but she sought in vain. No one else seemed to have heard it, for they carried on with their conversations as if nothing had happened. It seemed to have issued from somewhere far behind her to her right. She assured herself that it was only her guilty conscience playing tricks on her with the help of her tired mind. At any rate, Christine was not her friend. She was only an acquaintance, more importantly a rival that she needed to get rid of. She did not feel guilty betraying such a distant consociate.

Just as her heartbeat began to return to a normal pace, she heard the voice again. This time it emanated from right behind her left ear. It was barely a whisper, so soft, so alluring, so cunning that it took all her willpower to resist…

"_Heed my warning; do not go through with your malevolent little ruse. Mlle. Daaé is arranging to retire soon and you will justly earn your role then."_

Amelie tried to shut the voice out of her head, determined to go through with her plan. This was necessary for a successful career. She wanted to _take_ her spot, not inherit it when she retired. She wanted the fame that would come with outshining the famous Christine Daaé. She wanted to be the very best in France. If she waited for Christine to retire she would not get the recognition she would for for outstripping her. And what if she did not retire, after all? The voice could easily be deceiving her. Then she would be waiting for her retirement in her shadow for years while it never came.

She ignored it, and tried to ignore the cool clamminess that overcame her as well. She suddenly felt as if her legs couldn't support her.

"_Heed my warning…heed my warning…"_

She knew that she must speak to Marie now before that sly voice could persuade her to do otherwise. She discreetly pulled out a hairpin from where she had tucked it in her sleeve that morning and let it fall to the floor slightly behind her.

Marie stooped to retrieve it and tapped her shoulder.

"Amelie, I believe you dropped this?" she said, offering it to her.

"Oh, I believe I did. Thank you," Amelie said with a faux smile. "These wigs require so much upkeep! One can hardly keep them on one's head no matter how many pins they drive into their skull."

Marie laughed. "Very true. I can never seem to get mine to stay without slipping."

"Yes, I often have someone lend me a hand, I am frequently prone to make a botch of those types of things…Meg Giry is often a great help."

"Christine Daaé is lucky to have her as such a great friend; her wigs are even more ridiculous as the Prima Donna."

"Yes, she is. I hear she is going through a rough time right now and I am sure she is greateful for Meg's companionship…"

"Oh Really?" Marie's eyes brightened. "Poor thing," she said unconvincingly. "Do you know what…?"

"Oh yes, I heard—from _Meg Giry_ herself—that Christine's fiancé, Raoul, the Vicomte de Chagny, is in a enormous amount of trouble. Apparently his brother is a drunkard and gambled away all the family's money."

Marie seemed to be close to bursting at the mention of such juicy news. Amelie was satisfied, within an hour the whole opera house would know.

"Oh, the poor dear," Marie said. "His brother, you said? Did you catch his name?"

"Yes, I believe it was Philippe."

"Well that truly is a shame…such an influential family name, gone to waste…"

"Yes, indeed…"

"Places, ladies, places!" Reyer, shouted, pulling away from his conversation with Mme. Giry.

Amelie offered one last grin to Marie and turned around to face Reyer, unable to hide a small satisfied smile, very pleased with her impeccable acting.

"_Bravissima, Mademoiselle. What a splendid little show."_

That dreaded voice again! Amelie shuddered. Gooseflesh flared up on her arms.

"_Do not think your misdeeds will go unpunished. I will see to that…"_

She was going to be _punished_? A thousand retributions ran through her mind, each as terrible as the other. She began to regret telling Marie, fearing that whatever was to come would not make it worth the fame…

This was ridiculous. No one else had heard the voice; it was obviously a figment of her imagination. There was nothing to fear—except the deterioration of her sanity. She was not going to be admonished by a mere _voice_.

But she could not escape it. Throughout the rest of the day it continued to ring loudly in her head…

"_Heed my warning…heed my warning…"_

Try as she might she could not escape the hypnotic tones of the voice as it twisted those simple words into a beautiful melody—beautiful but dark at the same time.

"_Heed my warning…heed my warning…heed my warning…"_

She felt like she might go mad.


	10. Chapter 10

AN: Get ready for an important chappie!

* * *

Throughout the course of the day Christine noticed that she was receiving a lot of attention. Many of the girls sent glances her way—some condescending, some pitying, some disgusted. Following these stares were furtive whispers directed into eager ears that the girls made sure to hide behind secretive hands.

Jammes cornered her after rehearsal that night. "I am so sorry to hear about your fiancé's family," she gushed, taking hold of her friend's hand comfortingly. "Hopefully you will recover soon."

Christine started. "What are you on abour?"

Jammes sighed. "Meg told some of the others that Philippe gambled away the family fortune."

Christine was shocked. She couldn't believe that Meg would do such a thing! They had always been loyal to each other since they met when Christine came to the opera house ten years ago. She couldn't think of any reason why she would betray her like that after she promised not to speak of it to anybody for fear of upsetting Raoul—_Raoul_! She hadn't even thought of how he would react—she didn't want to think of how he would react…he would be _furious_, no doubt, when word reached his ears.

"I'm sorry, Jammes, I really need to be going—" she offered her a weary smile and feeble nod then rushed off to find Meg and confront her.

She found her surrounded by a group of excited girls who closed in on her, assailing her with questions. Meg looked rather uncomfortable.

"I never said anything of the sort! I know nothing about it! Please leave me alone," she cried, struggling to push her way through the throng of eager rats and chorus girls. She spotted Christine as she shoved past the last of the girls in the ring and looked at her with pleading wide eyes.

"Christine, I swear I never said a word—" she beseeched, looking miserable.

Christine could tell that she was completely honest. Meg was not attention seeking; just a minute ago she had been trying to push the girls off her and wouldn't answer any of their questions regarding the matter. Her spotless record vouched for her as well; she had never done anything to consciously harm Christine before either. The desperate look on her face also confirmed her innocence.

"I know," Christine said, silencing her with a weary smile. "I know it wasn't you."

The pack of girls began to advance towards them, like predators stalking their prey. Christine eyed them warily. "Let's go to my dressing room, shall we?" she said, feigning cheerfulness, knowing that all eyes were upon her. If she acted as if nothing was wrong perhaps they would write it off as a fabricated rumor. She linked her arm through Meg's and scurried to her dressing room.

"I know that you didn't tell anyone," Christine assured Meg after she shot her another apologetic look. "I just want to know who did…and how they found out."

"Who else knows?"

Christine sighed. "I didn't trust anyone but you with such a secret, and I'm sure Raoul didn't tell anyone. Oh Raoul, he's going to be murderous…"

"I'm sure he will be completely rational as long as you tell him that you didn't divulge the secret with anyone else," Meg assured her. "As long as he knows you're not to blame he can't be upset with you."

Christine nodded. "I'll be sure to tell him that. He was supposed to meet me here after rehearsals and we were to go to his mother's for more of the legal proceedings…I wonder what has detained him," she said nervously, wringing her hands. "It's been over half an hour."

"Well I'll be going then. I don't want to intrude when he comes back." Meg ignored Christine's protests and assured her that she should be going. "I'm dining with the Baron tonight anyways, I really must be going." Christine relented. Meg noticed that she still looked rather anxious. "You'll be fine," she assured her again, enveloping her friend's hands in her own. "He won't be cross with you; you are irreproachable. Don't worry, dear," she comforted her.

"Thank you, Meg. You've been so good to me."

Meg gave her an encouraging smile and left her alone to wait for Raoul.

Christine wondered if he had found out that their secret was leaked. Word spread like wildfire among the Parisians and she wouldn't be surprised if he had heard of it already. If he hadn't she definitely did not want to break the news—but she did not want to face his anger either. She would just have to wait and see; she was sure she would be able to tell if he knew or not by his expression when he entered the room.

She paced the floor anxiously while she waited for his entrance. Her mind kept drifting to how he might react, and she dreaded his arrival more and more each minute. She waited for another quarter of an hour before the door suddenly banged open and a _very_ flustered Raoul stomped through it. She started at the sudden noise and took a timid step back when she saw his lethal countenance.

"I cannot believe it," he growled, voice dangerously low. "It seems our reputation has sunk even lower when I thought it could not get worse after I became engaged to _you_," he spat.

How unjustifiably insolent! Her first instinct was to retort but she thought it best to remain calm and try to explain that she was just as innocent as he.

"Raoul, I told—"

"Exactly! You told! You senseless, selfish, _stupid_ girl!" he shouted, eyes livid as he advanced closer to her. "How could you be so careless? Or were you just foolish and did not understand the importance of our name? I suppose it was the latter, having a poor, wretched musician for a father wouldn't give one much of an education or knowledge of higher society!"

It took everything she had not to scream back at him for insulting her late father. She bit back her harsh words and tried to explain to him again. "_Listen to me!_ I told no one besides Meg who has been nothing but loyal to me my whole life! She was just as tight-lipped about the whole ordeal as I was. I had nothing to do with the story getting out."

Raoul looked manic by now. "Hah! Tight-lipped! I have never heard of a woman who was _tight-lipped_. You are all dreadfully gossipy creatures who do nothing but get their families into trouble! I do not believe that in the least, _I_ told no one but my own mother who has been so ashamed of the matter she will hardly speak of it to me! You lying, careless little brat, you must have let it slip to someone!"

"I swear Raoul, I told no one but Meg, who has been just as guarded as me!"

"Your word means nothing," he hissed. "This is my livelihood that has just been destroyed by you! If I had never proposed to you I would have avoided all of this. I could have married some girl with much better connections than yours but I fancied myself in love so I condescended to marry you. Well look where that got me! I will regret that day I proposed until the day I die!"

Her anger was too great now. "How can you speak to me like that!" she all but screamed, not caring who heard her. "You horrible, vulgar, man! I feel terribly sorry for the poor girl who has to marry you, but it will most certainly not be _me_!" and with that she thrust her engagement ring into his chest.

Now he was positively wild with fury. His eyes had narrowed into slits, his whole person seemed to be shaking, and his chest was heaving impressively.

"You_ wretch_," he snarled. He drew his arm back and slugged her in the jaw. She gasped, and hit the wall roughly. A sharp pain erupted in the ribs on her left side. She staggered forward, gasping for the breath that had left her body with the force of the hit. He aimed another one, this time catching her in the eye. She fell to the ground, cowering at his feet, unable to stand or leave. She was completely at his mercy which she knew he would not give.

"Get up, you sniveling brat!" he demanded, forcefully hoisting her up by her arm. He poised to hit her again, but this time the blow never came. She raised her eyes and saw that a white gloved hand restrained Raoul's arm by the elbow. The owner of said hand spun him around.

Raoul looked absolutely terrified as he stared up into the face of his captor.

"How _dare_ you strike a woman," the man hissed venomously. Raoul blanched significantly, no longer looking the formidable monster he was moments ago. "You deserve to be lynched. Get out of my sight before my temper gets the best of me and I do so," he said, his voice dangerously low but still much more terrifying than Raoul's had been when he had been bellowing. The man released Raoul and gestured for him to leave.

Raoul stumbled to the door, taking one last terrified look at the man before he toppled through the threshold. Christine remained crouched on the floor until the sound of his loud, hasty footsteps disappeared. Then she dared to look up at her savior.

He had pulled up a chair for her. He extended his hand to her as she met his eyes. She took it feebly and he gently pulled her to her feet.

"Are you alright?" he asked as he helped her into the chair. He seemed to realize the impropriety of the question and cringed, embarrassed.

"No, hardly not," she answered feebly, giving him a weak smile. "But if you hadn't come so soon I would have been in even worse condition…Thank you…"

"I only regret that I didn't come sooner," he sighed. His eyes wandered across her face, lingering on her jaw and eye. "Let me tend to your wounds. I'm afraid all my tools are in my home. Do you mind if I take you there?" he asked, his words rich with courtesy.

"No, not at all…I do not believe I can thank you enough," she said gratefully.

In one fluid, effortless movement, he swept her into his arms and began to carry her.

Her Angel of Music proved to be a brilliant Guardian Angel as well.


	11. Chapter 11

Despite the sharp, hot pain that pulsated through her whole body—although it was especially concentrated in her ribs, eye, and jaw—Christine found herself very comfortable in Erik's arms. His gait was so amazingly smooth and soundless she felt like they were floating. He smelled like a mixture of things—ink, leather, cinnamon, and some other musty aroma she couldn't name. It was very soothing. His arms, as bony as they were, proved quite cozy. As they continued on their journey he began to hum a sweet little melody, and she could feel the vibrations in his chest as he purred.

They encountered only one lonely scene-shifter, as Erik had taken a more reclusive route. Erik sensed the the worker before Christine, and had ducked into a shadowy corner and waited for him to pass. The scene-shifter waltzed by ignorantly, whistling a merry tune to himself and they got by unseen. He was a very good ghost.

She only wondered how he had found out she was in trouble. She decided that would be a good question for another time, she did not want him getting angry and abandoning her weak and unattended. Additionally, she was unsure if she really wanted to know the answer…

Despite what had happened minutes earlier, Christine was able to find some happiness. After not seeing Erik for more or less a month, his return quelled her fears of him being sick or even dead. He seemed very much the same, if not more subdued. She knew she had scared him away after that kiss and it would take a while for things to be the same as they had been before—if they ever returned to that level of ease around each other. But here she was, resting in his arms. That was definitely a step.

She was almost glad for Raoul's fit, for it had brought her friend back to her.

Almost.

She knew now that she could not marry him. No matter how much he apologized—which he was bound to do once he recovered his senses, as he was a gentelemn and wouldn't want to breaka off an engagement—she simply could not marry him. She refused to live with a man who had abused her. No matter how sweet he was to her nothing could ever take that fear of him hurting her from her mind.

She did not want to move on, she did not want to start over. It seemed he had always been in her life. He had been a playmate through her childhood and a lover through her young adulthood. She would miss him or, rather, the old him. She realized that she had been missing the old him for a while…the old romantic, carefree Raoul…But she had to leave him.

But she was glad that she got out of such an abusive relationship now, rather than being stuck with him for the rest of her life.

And she found out that she was not terribly sad, not terribly devastated, but she was not happy at the same time. She realized that no, she did not love the Vicomte. She had only been infatuated with the side of his character he had let her see, or she had let herself see, his kindness and charm. But he was also a violent man, obsessed with his standing, and with low esteem for the value of family. They had nothing in common, really. They were passionate about the opposite things.

She felt like a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. She could see clearly now, she was not partially blinded to what she should have seen plainly had she let herself. She could live, breathe freely…she could _sing_. She could _enjoy life. _Now she wouldn't have to retire until old age or sickness forced her to do so, and she prayed that would be a long while from now.

Perhaps marriage wasn't for her. She could be content as a single woman for the rest of her life, in love with music not a man. She would sing at the Garnier or any opera that would take her until she was too old and then she would teach; she would love to share her passion. It sounded wonderful to her, being free from the bonds of a marriage and being able to sing and enjoy music for the rest of her life.

She had been so lost in her thoughts that she did not notice Erik looking down at her quizzically.

"You seem to be in unreasoningly good spirits," he remarked, ceasing to hum.

She smiled weakly. "I suppose I should be crying hysterically or something of the sort."

Erik laughed, and she felt the deep vibrations through the thin shirtsleeves that separated them. "That's what I would expect, yes. But refrain if you can, for I fear I would be no help at comforting you."

"Oh, that's not true," she protested. "You are doing so well now!"

He snorted derisively. "By remaining impolitely quiet as I stumble through the halls, almost dropping you on too many occasions?"

"No," she began softly. "By respecting my wish to think and by…by humming," as she said this last bit she felt her cheeks redden at the childishness of it.

He chuckled. "We will be there in a matter of minutes and then I will tend to your eye and jaw—are those your only wounds?"

"No, I think I might have broken a rib as well," Christine admitted, feeling embarrassed. She did not like feeling so fragile.

Erik sighed and studied her face for a moment more. "I am afraid it might be a while until you are able to perform."

"Amelie Jardin will take my place, no doubt," Christine grumbled. "And then I will be a chorus girl once again."

Erik smiled slightly. "No, I do not think so. Mlle. Jardin has most unfortunately lost her voice, and I do not think she will recover it very soon. It is _quite_ a shame."

"Oh, what happened to her?"

Erik tilted his head to the side; he would have shrugged nonchalantly had his arms not been otherwise employed. "Perhaps a month or two…maybe a year…or a lifetime…"

Christine looked at him skeptically. "You didn't have anything to do with this, did you?"

Erik's lips tilted upwards. "Of course not. That wouldn't be playing fair." But he let his expression show that he was clearly not telling the truth.

Christine smiled slightly. "Well that's a relief. If she had replaced me it most likely would have been permanent, but I think that the girl who will take my place might only hold it temporarily."

Erik nodded. "You hold the heart of Paris in your hands. The managers are not stupid enough to replace you and loose half of their income."

"Everyone is replaceable," Christine said sensibly.

Erik looked like he wanted to disagree but only replied with a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat.

They arrived at his home not long after. Christine noticed that it was messier than normal. It suited him, as a genius of many talents and arts he didn't have time to spare for cleaning.

"I am sorry for the mess," he murmured, setting her down on a sofa. "I haven't had the opportunity to clean recently," he apologized, raking a hand through his dark hair. "I will get some tea and my supplies. Is here anything else you need at the moment?" he asked.

She replied with the negative that there wasn't, thank you, and that she was very much obliged to him.

"I will be back shortly. Excuse me."

The initial pain of her injuries had worn off during the trek down to the cellars, but a different kind of pain began to ensue. This type was dull and throbbing, it would rise and fall like waves washing in on the shore of the beach. This was a lasting type of pain that she knew she would not be relieved of for a while. It hurt with each intake of breath as her lungs pushed against her damaged and irritated ribs. She could not sing while her ribs were still healing; if shallow breaths were painful then the deep, gulping pants she took while singing would be even more so. She hoped Erik's help may shorten that time.

He returned in a minute or two, one hand gracefully balancing a tea tray and the other carrying a black medicine bag. He set the tray on the table in front of her and she gratefully took a sip from one of the steaming cups.

He began to rifle through his bag, pulling out various ointments and tools.

"Where did you learn medicine?" Christine asked, surveying the foreign looking objects that he could not have obtained from France.

"Here and there," he said vaguely. "Most of my knowledge came from the Gypsies."

She wondered what other hidden talents the man behind the mask secretly possessed. Madame Giry had once said that he was also a master architect, illusionist and ventriloquist. She wondered what he _couldn't _do.

"Pardon me," he murmured. "but may I…?" he asked, lifting his hand to her jaw. She bobbed her head yes and tilted my head back slightly so that he could treat her wounds better from where he kneeled on the floor.

His hand slowly rose to where it hovered millimeters away from her discoloring jawline. Then hesitantly, his fingertips brushed against her skin.

She jumped from the shock that surged through her body.

Erik pulled away instantly, ashamed. His eyes bore holes into the carpet as he was determined not to look her in the eye.

"Perhaps," he began but his broke off. "Perhaps you should administer these to yourself."

"No," she insisted. "No. Please…" and she took hold of his cold hand and gently brought it to her chin.

He held his hand there for a moment before exploring her bruised flesh with two fingertips. He began asking questions about the wound, while alternately prodding at it and rummaging through his bag.

"I am going to put some of this on," he said decidedly, holding up a small bottle. "It is just a bruise—although quite nasty one at that—but your jaw is still intact. It should be discolored for a little over a week."

She nodded obediently.

"As for your eye…look at me." She stared into the golden eyes that lay behind the mask. "Now turn your head slightly…and maintain my gaze…" he gently tilted her chin away. He sighed. "A subconjunctival hemorrhage."

She looked at him quizzically.

"You popped a blood vessel in your eye," he said in simpler terms. "If your eye starts to feel dry, which it most likely will, take these," he said, handing her a small bottle. "They are eye drops. Two should do it. As for the bruising around it, use this. It is made specifically for such delicate areas as the eye. Now did you say your ribs are…?"

"Yes. I—I hit the wall and I heard a crack and felt a sharp pain. It seems to be one of the lowest ones," she said.

"I am afraid that I cannot look at that," he said regretfully with a hint of uneasiness as he began to pack up his bag. "Are you suggesting that one of the broke?"

She nodded. "My dress is thin—you can feel it through the fabric." She picked up his hand again and led it to her ribcage. "This one," she said "is the one that I think I might have broken."

Erik pushed it, testing it in different places, asking her when and where she felt pain. He watched her chest rise and fall and listened to her breathing. "I cannot say for sure," he said. "but I'm fairly positive it is fractured. There is not much you can do but let it heal in time. It will not fully heal for over six weeks, but you will be able to move around sooner than then. Lie on the injured side and take deep breaths, even though it will be painful; it prevents pneumonia. Use these bandages to wrap around the area to support it, but to not wrap too tightly. I will give you something to help soothe the pain."

"Thank you," she said, trying to convey every ounce of her gratitude into those two little words. "I don't know what would have become of me if you hadn't found me."

He made a noise in the back of his throat to say this it was no major inconvenience. She gathered her bottles and medications and rose to leave, wincing at the sharp pain that stung in her side as she did so. Erik leapt to his feet and took a hold of her arm.

"You are in no state to travel to your flat," he said seriously. "I would suggest staying down here,"

"I don't want to impose on you—"

He gave her a look. "And I don't want you fainting in the street on the way to your apartment," he said frankly, easing the conversation with a smirk.

He took the bottles from her and escorted her into the familiar bedroom. He arranged them on her bedside table and looked at her concernedly. "Is there anything else I can do?" he asked.

"No," she assured him. "I don't believe I can ever thank you enough."

He nodded concisely and stalked out of the room, ducking through the low doorframe.

She pulled off her dress with great difficulty and slipped into a lush robe hanging neglected in the closet. She took some of the pain medication left thoughtfully on her bedside table, tried to crawl into bed with as little movement as possible, and laid on her side as Erik had prescribed.

Her room looked the exact same as she had seen it last, except everything was covered in a thick filmy layer of dust. She wondered if Erik had even ventured into the room in the previous four years.

She was very tired and her eyes were fighting the urge to stay open. She put the kerosene lamp out and tried to get some sleep, and despite the millions of thoughts crowding her head she nodded off very quickly.


	12. Chapter 12

Christine slept well with the help of the medication given to her by Erik. When she awoke she panicked slightly, knowing neither where she was nor the cause of the throbbing pain that coursed through her body. Within a moment she remembered what had happened the day before, how Raoul had gone into a rage and struck he, and how Erik had saved her.

She wondered how long she had been asleep. There were no clocks in Erik's home besides his pocket watch, and being five stories below the ground, windows wouldn't give her an idea of the time. She knew that she must notify the managers of her absence. She swung her legs out of bed shrugged on a dressing gown, and tried to move as little as possible to avoid worsening the pain in her side. She glanced mindlessly in the mirror on the way to the door, but quickly looked back.

She almost did not recognize herself.

Her whole jawline was discolored, blues and purples spread across her once milkyskin. The area was raised and inflamed. Her eye was heavily bruised as well, and the red popped blood vessel in her eye stained the white of her eye.

She sighed. She would have to remain out of public eye until the evidence was erased, otherwise she would surely raise speculation and bad publicity for the Garnier. She would have to come up with a reason for her absence…perhaps a trip to visit a distant ailing relation in Spain? It would be an innocent excuse for a three week long absence…however long it would take that rib to heal. She would stay here for a week, and then get well in her flat with the help of her quiet but resourceful maid. She could not disturb Erik during her whole recovery process.

With these thoughts on her mind she trudged into the sitting room to ask Erik for some means to write to the managers. She did not find him there but she heard noises coming from the kitchen. She entered the kitchenette quietly and he did not notice her arrival. His back was to her as he piled crepes, eggs, and a wide variety of fruit onto a tray.

"Good morning, Erik," she said.

He turned around, clearly surprised by the sound of her voice. His surprise quickly turned into anger, and he hastened towards her quickly.

"What are you doing? You should not be on your feet for another fortnight at the very least!"

"I—I just came in to—"

He huffed impatiently. "Did I not tell you that you need rest? You must listen to me if you wish get well." He ushered her into her room as if she was on the verge of breaking and could fall apart like a delicate porcelain doll any moment. Once she was properly situated he inquired if she needed anything else, and promised to return soon with more pain medication, the paper and ink that she had requested, and breakfast. She thanked him again for his kindness and he waved it off with a dismissive hand.

"Do not be so redundant. You have already offered me your thanks ten times too many," he snapped crossly.

She frowned. "I'm sorry my father raised me not to be impolite and ungrateful." She had already made to leave twice but _he_ had all but forced her to stay. She had been sufficiently grateful and asked for little but accepted with gratitude the attentions he gave her. There was no explanation for his bad temper.

His expression softened slightly but he said no more as he returned to the kitchen. He returned with an overflowing tray filled enough for a small family, and a few sheets of fine white paper and a fountain pen with red ink. She accepted them mutely, almost accidently letting a word of thanks pass her lips that would have so irrationally irritated him. He crouched down easily beside her bed, long legs bending with noticeable flexibility. He began to silently administer the creams and drops that he had given her the previous night and gave her the pain reliever. His hands worked smoothly and effortlessly, but his mind seemed to be somewhere else. He finished his work, instructed her to sleep, and left.

She had grown accustomed to his unpredictable mood swings; last night he had been amiable, kind, and helpful. This morning he had been cantankerous and distracted.

She heard the sound of him tuning his violin, and the majority of his strings were sharp as it was rather cold in the cellars. There was a moment of silence and she knew he must have been rosining his bow. She continued to wait in eager anticipation for him to play.

Her patience was rewarded, as patience always is. He began to play a slow melody, using powerful crescendos and decrescendos to lengthen the phrases. By listening she could tell that he was using a mute—her father had been a violinist, after all, and though she could not play the instrument it had been the sound she had grown up with—and it fit the mood of the song wonderfully. His vibrato was slight, his deep, rich sound produced by using the whole length of the bow. She did not recognize the song so she guessed that it must have been one of his compositions.

It really was beautiful. His playing made that of her father sound like a novice. Perhaps it was because of the great amount of impressive technique he possessed combined with the passion that he poured into his music. She supposed that was how he had such a stoic façade, bereft of emotion, because he emptied it all into in his music. She had always wondered how he was able to coax such powerful sound from the humble wooden instrument; her voice was her own and it was easy to manipulate. But instruments often had minds of their own, and they were not always so cooperative.

She enjoyed his playing as she wrote a very apologetic letter to the managers, explaining the reason for her absence—a sickly relative on her deathbed demanded her presence. She felt guilty about lying to her managers who had always been so kind to her but there was no way she could tell them the truth. Finishing her letter, she sealed it and left it on her bedside table. The slices of peach perched upon the tray of abundant food looked very tempting and she nibbled on two of them before dozing off again.

Some time passed in the same fashion. She would listen to Erik's playing, read one of the many books he had provided for her, or sleep. She was very comfortable in his exquisite home; everything that was inside it was stylish and of great quality, but not gaudy or flashy. His cooking was excellent and she had to use all of her self restraint not to polish off all the food he gave her and try to politely decline his entreaties for her to eat more. She was constantly on pain medication, but the dosage was not strong enough to eliminate all the pain. He played almost constantly, either on his organ, piano, violin, and she even occasionally heard the deep pitches of the C string on his cello. The hours passed slowly; although she was comfortable she began to grow restless as he still wouldn't let her leave her bed .

With little to do besides eat, sleep, and read, she was left alone with her thoughts—Erik didn't quite stand vigilantly at her bedside so she had no one to keep her mind occupied.

She wondered where Raoul was, if he had disowned Philippe, and how the public had reacted to the news. Did they know about the broken engagement? It was unlikely; he probably would keep it as quiet as possible and move to a different part of the county—word was bound to come out sometime, and he would want to be far away from the Parisians that adored Christine so much. She didn't mind that one bit; she would be able to stay at the Garnier and continue to sing with the people that had become her family and teach the new students when she was too old. The prospect of becoming an old maid had never seemed so delightful—and the absence of her past love would make it even more so.

Despite the pain in her side and on her face she felt quite…happy.

It was so strange. She should be weeping uncontrollably, dreading the life of an unmarried woman before her. The loss of her fiancée should be devastating. But she felt free, happy, and excited for a fresh start.

She saw the good out of his cruelty and was able to rejoice in it. It took that to make her see that she was not in love with him—she never was. And had she married him there would have been no way out even if she did realize it. When she focused on the positives it seemed to dull the pain in her side and make her more eager to begin life again.

After some amount of unknown time she was able to move with much less pain, and although it was still painful, she could walk small distances and dress more easily. She thought it was time to go to her flat now to finish with her recovery and get out of Erik's way. She decided to propose this question while he brought her a steaming bowl of minestrone.

"How long has it been since I came here?" she asked, feigning disinterest.

Erik blinked. "Why do you want to know? Are you eager to leave?"

"No—not at all—well—" she sighed. "I should leave but my stay here has been most pleasant and I couldn't have asked for a better caretaker or environment to get well in. But I know I have imposed on your courtesy far too long and I don't want to overstay my welcome even more."

"It is no inconvenience. You barely eat and require little else." He sighed as well. "But I shall not force you to stay. You have been here a fortnight and two days. Tomorrow you may leave. I shall prepare your medications that you will take with you."

Without letting her get in another word, he left her bedroom. She realized the carelessness of her words. Erik was the type of person who would get offended if you offered to leave, even if you were doing so to ease his burden. He took it personally, which was only a result of low self-esteem and irrational self-loathing.

She wanted to stay, of course. Even though her maid and Erik were equally as silent, Erik was a wonderful doctor and provided beautiful music, and when in a good mood, he could be great company. But it would be rude to stay so long when she was capable of moving back to her little flat. She woke the next morning to a wonderful cup of steaming tea and a moody Erik.

"Since you are so eager to go we can leave as soon as you finish eating," he snapped.

She wanted to tell him that she did not want to leave, but that would be even more impolite since she had already told him she would go. She responded with a meek nod instead.

"Where is your flat?" he asked.

She gave him the address and brief directions from the opera house.

"I will come to check on you in a few days to see how you are coming along. It will not be too long until you will be able to sing again, but you will still need to keep the ribs wrapped up for a while," he finished with a dismissive wave of his hand. "But we can sort that out later."

She nodded again. "Have you heard any news about what is going on in the opera house? Or in Paris?"

Erik looked sheepish. "I did not want to tell you this before because I did not want to discourage you…but your managers are not too pleased with you."

She raised her eyebrows questioningly.

"There is a little chorus girl—Marie Langille—whose father bought her way in to take the role of Prima Donna until you return. The managers have taken a liking to her—or, rather, the influx of money that came with her. Her father is ridiculously wealthy. Firmin particularly did not like your unexpected absence, and was not too impressed with your excuse either. Andre complained that you were too much of a hassle, caused too much drama. He seemed to be the most irritated of the two." He shook his head, disgusted. "I do not know if they will replace you, that Jardin girl is out of the question as she still hasn't recovered her voice but this girl is their new favorite. If they do replace you it is a ridiculous idea. The whole city loves you. They would make some money from her father, but they would lose even more from lowered attendance rates. If they have any sense at all they will welcome you with open arms when you return."

"I hope you are right," Christine sighed. "I do not know where to go if they don't have me back."

Erik looked sympathetic. "Do not worry about it, Christine. They wouldn't think of replacing you unless they wanted to lose all their business."

Pulling herself slowly into a sitting position, Christine sighed. "Let's hope so."

Erik offered her his hand and helped her out of bed. This was the first time she had stood for a while and her knees wobbled weakly. He immediately drew closer to her, placing one hand on her arm and the other around her waist to support her.

"I have your things with me," he said. "And I will escort you to your flat."

She nodded but did not thank him as the last time she had done so he had not reacted favorably.

What had once seemed a moderate journey now felt like a hike up the Alps. They were climbing the five flights of stairs—Erik with his usual ease and Christine with great trouble. The muscles in her legs were weak from days of neglect and she still felt pain every time her lungs pushed against the damaged rib. She didn't want to beg for help though so she toiled in silence until they reached the door.

"I will go hail a cab and come back to get you," he instructed, hesitating as though he did not want to leave her alone, but he left nonetheless with a swish of his cloak, only to return a few minutes later. He held his arm out to her which she clutched for support and he led her to the cab. He told the driver the name of the street of her apartment and the sound of the horses hooves soon echoed off the cobbled street. The drive was short, and after he paid the chauffeur she led him to her room.

She had written to her maid and given her a break but had yet to write her again to tell her that she needed her assistance so they were alone. But that was desirable; her maid would be a little frightened of Erik's tall, forbidding figure. And the mask could be rather unnerving.

He set down the bag he had brought with all her medications. "I trust you know how to administer these?" he asked. She replied with the affirmative.

"Good. I will return in three days to check in on you and restock your medicine if needed. By then I will be able to tell you when you may return to the opera."

She spent those days trying to regain her strength by walking through the streets of Paris, and by doing so she found out all the news she had missed while she was underground by flicking through the papers. The De Chagny's had not disclosed anything about the engagement, and Philippe was no longer a member of the family. Mlle. Langille was a disappointment to the critics who saw nothing in her besides beauty, but Erik was not the only one who thought her position might be permanent. Some speculated that she would take Mlle. Daaé's role permanently with the help of an influential father who doted on his daughter. She only hoped that Erik would allow her to sing again soon so that she could return as quickly as possible to try and persuade Andre and Firmin to allow her to stay.

Her recovery was going very speedily. The popped blood vessel in her eye had mended as the bruises around it, and her jaw only had a bit of a purple hue. Her rib was the only major ailment anymore. It did not take very well to walking great distances, but she was beginning to slowly begin to sing again and reintroduce it to the deep breaths that singing required. By the time that those three days had passed she hoped that Erik would permit her to return to the Garnier.

On that appointed day of his visit she gave her maid a day off again to avoid any complications that would come with them meeting. Her flat was very shabby—and even more so when compared to Erik's extravagant home—but she did her best to clean it and make it look the best. This occasion called for her to bring out her best china and the last of her imported tea, reserved for the most special of occasions. He was in good spirits, a rather rare occasion, that was probably due to the relentless downpour drenching the streets of Paris and few people populating them due to that rain. She told him about her daily walks around the streets of Paris and about how she had started to sing again, testing her ability with simple scales and voice exercises. He seemed reluctant, but he gave her his consent to return to the Garnier and speak with the managers on the morrow. She thanked him with great sincerity, knowing that he would have rather kept her shut up for a few more days before allowing her to go back but had relented because of the threat Mlle. Langille posed. Every day she waited, the more jeopardy she put her career in. He promised to be there with her though neither she nor the managers would be able to see him. They arranged to meet in her dressing room at the end of the meeting, and Erik left.

She dispatched a short note with a small boy asking for their private audience at ten tomorrow morning. She gave him a few coins and he was off. He returned later that night bearing an answer from her managers who were very willing to see her. With this favorable answer in her mind she hoped that they would take pity on her and she would be the prima donna once more.


	13. Chapter 13

"I am very sorry, Mlle. Daaé. We must regretfully inform you that over the time of your lengthy absence your role has been…ah, permanently fulfilled."

Christine's heart skipped a beat.

Firmin looked very apologetic and ashamed. "Hiring Mlle. Langille was simply a business move," he explained. "We hold nothing against you. But during such a long absence there had to be some replacement, and Mlle. Langille proved to be a rather advantageous alternate."

Christine felt her cheeks flush in anger. "And what, M. Firmin, do you mean by _advantageous_?"

Firmin looked even more flustered. "I—well, Mlle. Daaé—"

"She brings in money, yes. But she is untalented. If you wish to break even, then I would reconsider your decision. This influx is only temporary. Soon attendance rates will fall and you will be deep in debt."

"She has already signed a contract," Andre barked. He was not as forgiving or understanding as Firmin.

"We could find you a spot in the chorus," Firmin offered, glancing uneasily at his partner who frowned in return.

"I am afraid there are no available spots. I'm sorry Mlle. Daaé," he apologized without any sympathy. "but that is what happens when one leaves work for a month."

"I had good reason, my aunt was on her deathbed and demanded to see me," she protested, lying easily. "I couldn't deny her death wish."

"I'm sorry, Mademoiselle," Andre snapped, making it clear that he was not.

Christine could tell the conversation was over and their decision was final. She glanced hopefully at Firmin for some help but he simply shrugged sheeishly, looking as if he wished he could help but they both knew that Andre would not relent. She stood with what little dignity she had left, thanked them for their time, and left the office.

She could hear the orchestra rehearsal as she walked to her dressing room. They were practicing a new opera by Debussy, _Pelléas et Mélisande_. She knew Reyer and the managers chose that this specific piece because it showcased the orchestra, and that would help them to hide Langille's lack of talent. It was disgusting how the arts were now corrupted with money.

She found her way to her dressing room, bitterly blinking back tears. She fumbled with the lock as her fingers tried to stuff the key in its familiar aperture. Finally forcing the door open, she slammed it shut behind her and stumbled into the room.

"_Excuse_ me?" she heard a voice shriek.

She immediately glanced up, and saw another girl in the room. She was sitting in front of the vanity pinning her hair. Her light eyebrows were raised questioningly, and pale lips pressed to form a thin line. As she lowered her hands from where they had been occupied fixing her hair, her golden locks tumbled from their perch on top of her head and fell down her shoulders. Her round face held an utterly confused countenance, but the flared nostrils of her large nose showed that she was quite irritated as well. She stood up, revealing a plump figure, and looked at her with obvious bewilderment.

"How on earth did you get into my dressing room?"

Christine felt her temper begin to flare. It wasn't _her _dressing room—

Then it dawned upon her that this must be Marie Langille. She studied the girl carefully. She seemed to have assumed the role of an overbearing, theatrical, and condescending diva very quickly.

Christine held up the key. "It was _mine_."

"Well," she sniffed. "Not any longer."

Christine looked around the walls, cluttered with clothes and jewelry and extravagances. "I see that," she quipped. She had certainly remodeled it from the humble room it had once been.

Marie did not catch her sarcasm, and continued to look at her with growing dislike.

"I'll just take the things I left here and go," Christine said, not wanting to remain in the girls presence any longer that what was necessary.

"I put all of your things over there," Marie told her, pointing with a disdainful finger at an old rickety table on which she had dumped Christine's few belongings.

"Oh, and one of the patrons…de Chagny? Has been frequently calling for you. I tried to tell him that this wasn't your room anymore, but he was rather stubborn and seemed to think that if he would come back again you would suddenly appear," she sighed with a roll of her brown eyes.

Christine gathered her things and thanked her with what little politeness she could muster for telling her about Raoul. She left her key on the table, thinking with great pain that she wouldn't be needing it anymore. Her throat felt very tight all of a sudden, and she knew not how long she would last before a tear slipped out of her eye.

She looked at Marie with a great deal of sadness. She knew this girl would resemble La Carlotta in a few years and hoped that she would be turned out of the Opera by then, remembering remorsefully how Carlotta had made all the other girls feel insignificant and miserable. She felt bad leaving the Garnier in such a dreadful state.

"I wish you the very best in your career," she said trying to sound like she meant it when she really wished the opposite.

Marie nodded derisively, looking down at her from her long nose. "Thank you," she said stiffly.

She let herself out of the dressing room, taking one last glance at the full length mirror that she had used so many times to go to Erik's home.

She couldn't bring herself to face him, so she did not try and seek him out as she had promised she would, and instead hurried back to her flat, keeping her head ducked down to hide the tears that leaked out of the corners of her eyes.

She dissolved into a pile of tears once she reached her apartment. She felt miserable, and she couldn't believe how merely months ago her future had seemed so bright. She was the prima donna, engaged to who she thought was the most wonderful man in the world, and Erik was nowhere in sight. Her life had been so perfect.

Now she was unemployed without a husband to provide for her. Meg's wedding was a week ago, and she and the Baron were honeymooning in Italy. Jammes lived in the Garnier and it would be very imprudent to visit her. She hadn't a friend to comfort her. Erik lived in the opera house, so she couldn't see him either. What was the point of his instruction anyway, if she couldn't sing? She wondered if he had ever finished the opera that she had been helping him with. She felt obliged to see it through, but still didn't think she would be able to face him when doing so would bring back such memories of her time at the Garnier which had been the some of happiest years of her life, topped only by her childhoon in Sweeden.

Her maid returned from running some errands and Christine's poor financial situation required her to dismiss her. She gave her some of the scanty means she had left and bid her to find another home to work in, one that could provide for her better than she could.

Tomorrow, she decided, she would look for another occupation herself. Once she had earned enough money she would move somewhere and seek work as a singer…whenever that would be. It seemed like it would be an eternity until she would be able to relocate, but the prospect of being able to sing again would make the long hours and hard work pass away much more easily.

The next day she set off in one of her nicer dresses and walked the streets, inquiring within some of the shops if they were hiring. Most of them did not hire women, and she was beginning to grow desperate. She wanted a respectable job, and hoped that she wouldn't have to lower her moral standards to make a living. She was starting to grow weary and discouraged, having been to most of the shops without any luck. She had even been to larger homes inquiring if they needed a maid or governess. The sun started to set, and as most of the stores were closing, she returned home feeling very disheartened.

She continued this process for a few days without any success. She was tired, hungry, and discouraged. On the fourth day of her search she stumbled upon a small tailoring shop, and upon asking she found out that they needed a seamstress. Despite the meager wages, long hours, and drafty, poor conditions, she eagerly accepted the position. The owner of the shop instructed her on her duties and instructed her to come back on the morrow for her first day on the job. She thanked him again for the position and left with a spring in her step that hadn't been there for a while.

Things were looking up. Her job might not be the best paying, but it provided a little income. A seamstress was not a reputable occupation either, but she could still think of things that were much worse. For these few things she was thankful, and she looked forward to the day when this would pay off and she could afford to move and sing again. Until then she would toil away at the tailors, and continue to sing at night to keep her dream alive and remind herself of what she was working for.

The job of a seamstress was not a glamorous one. She worked ten hours a day and only had a twenty minute break at noon. Her back was constantly aching from bending over a sewing machine for hours. The machine itself was not reliable in the very least, it was an old model and broke down and malfunctioned frequently. Her boss, Mr. Murray, an Englishman, was kind to her but demanded her to work very hard. There was another woman who worked in the shop, but she was old, very hard of hearing, and did not speak a word of French. But she did understand a little Swedish, so when necessary Christine could communicate with her in her native tongue, although very loudly and slowly so she could understand. The rooms were cold and drafty and she was constantly fighting off a cold.

She hadn't contacted Meg, Jammes, or Erik since she began to work there. She was afraid to. She didn't want their sympathy or money. She most certainly did not want Erik to know that she had sunk so low. He would sure be disappointed at her disability to able to hold a job and lack of courage to seek one at another opera or somewhere that required a singer. She was lonely. Since she did not tend to the customers she did not have much interaction with other people and had only her thoughts and the rhythmic hum of the sewing machine to keep her company.

The days trickled by slowly, each one the same as the last. But there was a day when things took a drastic turn.

Adéle Varens, the young girl who worked the floor and did fittings with the customers, had married and quit the job, leaving the position unmanned—or, unwomanned. Christine now had the responsibility of the fittings _and_ sewing, as the old woman couldn't speak any French and although Mr. Murray owned the business he knew nothing of the work it entailed.

Christine found the workload very tiring—she was still expected to sew the same amount of clothing as before. She often worked late into the night to get everything finished. Mr. Murray would give her the key and she would lock up and trudge to her flat and fall into bed, unable to summon the energy to sing. Her life was monotonous, bereft of friends and diversions which once occupied her time. She didn't even have the time or energy to sing and lift her spirits. She worked lifelessly, dreaming while she was awake—for she had not the time to sleep, so her dreams took place behind dull open eyes. Visions of the beautiful hills of her homeland, Sweeden, filled her mind and she blocked out the hum of the sewing machine and listened to the crackling of a crystal clear brook, reflecting the bright cloudless sky in its glassy waters. The mountain air was crisp and fresh, and not a soul was in sight. She was free, the wind twisting it's hands around her in a welcoming caress. The green grass tickled her bare feet, bending and swaying at the wind's command. As far as the eye could see there were mountains, rocky and mossy, but topped off with pure snow. The sun beamed down on the world below, sharing its warmth and light.

But then the needle would run out of thread and she needed to thread it again. But those visions kept her sane, kept her going. Without them, she would have surely lost her mind.

She had just finished taking out a dress when she heard the shop door open, creaking noisily. She pulled herself out of the chair and stretched her back, taking pins and a measuring tape on her way out.

"Hello," she said to the tall man who had entered the shop. He was looking at a suit in the window with his back to her. "May I help you?" she asked, taking a step closer.

He turned around and she jumped.

"_Christine," _he exclaimed eagerly. "Oh, Christine!" he immediately reached out and grasped her hands and pulled her close to him.

"No," she shook her head decidedly, pushing away. "No. Please—we're through, Raoul."

AN: Annnnd he's back! You didn't think Christine would get out of it that easily, did you?


	14. Chapter 14

"Christine, _mon_ _cherie_, I am so, so, deeply sorry," he gushed. He offered her the engagnement ring that she had shoved in his chest that fateful night.

She shook her head resolutely, not trusting herself to speak, and pushed back his hands which held the band.

He sighed, and ran his hand through his hair that had grown a little more scraggly and long since she saw him. It trailed down his neck and rubbed the stubbly skin. His red bloodshot eyes seemed to stare right through her. "I know what i did was wrong, and it was so terribly out of character. Surely you know that is not how I act?"

She continued to remained silent.

"I knew this wouldn't be easy," he murmured. "Shall we sit down?"

She decided to give him a chance to plead his case.

He pulled up a chair and sat down next to her. "You wouldn't believe how hard I have looked for you," he exclaimed. "No one saw you, heard from you for over a month—you disappeared. I came to your apartment almost every day—but you were never there. I contacted your friends Meg and Jammes, even Mme. Giry and none of them knew your whereabouts. Another girl was using your dressing room. I was so desperate I almost considered going down to the cellars where that lunatic used to live—do you remember him?" She had to bite back a smirk; she did remember him. More clearly than he thought. "I searched for you every day, and I inquired at almost every store in town if they had seen a beautiful girl matching your description. They all replied that such a woman had passed through the doors looking for work, but had not hired you. I was just coming here today to do ask and it seems as if I didn't need to," he finished with a weak smile.

She glanced up at him from her work but didn't say a word.

"Oh, Christine," he sighed, leaning forward in his chair. "Not a minute goes by that I don't regret what I did. It was so unlike me. I'm ashamed that I would ever do that to anyone—_especially_ to someone like you. I don't want to lose you, Christine. I love you. I'm willing to do anything for you to forgive me."

She reluctantly released her foot from the pedal and the machine slowed to a stop. Her eyes roamed over his face and the emotions so openly portrayed on its canvas. Regret, sadness, admiration…

"I'm sorry, Raoul," she said, "but I cannot forget what you did, and as of now, I cannot forgive it either."

His eyes glassed over. "I was afraid you would say that," he whispered softly. She had never seen him look so broken.

Her gaze softened. "Raoul, we were never truly compatible. You never understood my love for music, I never understood high society. Your values are completely different than mine; you were so focused on reputation and I didn't care about anything of the sort. We had completely different backgrounds, families, upbringings—we just never really worked, and I never really realized that until that one night."

"That's not true, Christine—"

"Yes, it is," she said quietly. "You know it is."

He shook his head earnestly. "We were in _love_, Christine, don't you remember? Almost five years ago, was it not, when I saw you sing in Hannibal? Right then, Christine, you captured my heart. And I have not got it back since. If you leave me without it, I—I don't know what I'll do."

The look in his eyes almost reduced her to tears. He was begging, quite literally, on his knees, for forgiveness.

"I was arrogant, I was rude, I was so ungentlemanly I cannot believe it at times. I have never had a temper like that, but all the stress had mounted and I took it out on someone who means very much to me and did not deserve it at all," his eyes were glassy now. "You were ready to comfort me, and I—I—" his voice broke and he hung his head, ashamed.

"Forgive me, Christine. I cannot bear to think of life without you. This past month has been a torment. All I could think of was you, and how I hadn't the faintest idea where you were, if you were alright…I love you and I cannot imagine living the rest of my days without your presence giving life to them. Say you'll try, Christine, please…"

This was it. She could take his tempting proposal and move away with her childhood sweetheart. She wouldn't have to work in this dark and dreary tailor shop anymore. If she stayed it might be months—years until she would have enough money to leave and find work in an opera house again. But if she married him she could leave right this moment and not have to suffer through these terrible days at the shop…

But she did not love him

Additionally she knew that she would never feel truly comfortable living with a man who had abused her. She remembered that night so clearly—it brought pain just to think about it. The wound was too fresh—physically and metaphorically—it hadn't scarred yet and she was not willing to dive into the offender's territory again. She wouldn't willingly live with someone who had physically hurt her. Erik had _never_ hit her. He had raised his hand to strike her when she had had kissed him—that seemed so long ago, had it only been a few months?—but hadn't touched her. He had killed many men, yes, but he had never harmed her. Raoul, however, had struck her multiple times. That she could not forgive.

This was it. Take him up on his offer and live comfortably in a rich, extravagant home, smothered by the high society, or toil away for an undetermined amount of time before getting to perform again—and it wasn't certain that she would ever even get that opportunity.

It was so tempting…so, _so_, tempting….to never have to work a day in this horrid place again, leave this place, and start over with him…she had loved him once, why couldn't she love him again? It would take time, yes, and she would never be able to trust him the way she once did. But as she sat there, with an empty stomach, stiff back, bleeding fingers, and a sick body with a failing immune system, nothing had ever seemed so wonderful than leaving this all behind. What if she never got out of this place? There was no garuntee that she would be able to make enough money to leave before her youth faded away. She was already seeing signs of premature aging due to the harsh conditions in the shop. Having limited days on the stage were better than none…

She knew what her diecision was.

"I can't live with someone who abused me, Raoul. I can't accept you."

He took one hard, long look at her before he slowly stood up. "I won't give up, Christine. I can see you need time, and I respect that. but I won't move on—I _can't_ move on. Do you know how horrible this past month has been for me?" His shabby and disheveled appearance explained it for him. "I can't live like this Christine. But I'll give you time. Then I'll be back, yes, I'll be back. If you ever need me, you know where I am. I won't move from there until I have you beside me."

He had delivered this speech while walking with her to the front door and by now they were standing by the door way.

"I love you," he choked.

She was unsure of what to do. He looked so lost, so miserable. And she hated the fact that she had caused this—No, _he_ had caused it. She was being reasonable. He was the one who had abused her. This was not her fault; it was his. She had nothing to feel remorseful about.

But she hated being cold-hearted, and so she wrapped her arms around him in a tentative embrace. He slowly raised his shaking hands and did the same. They stood there for a while, wrapped in each other's arms, before Christine pulled away.

"Goodbye, Raoul."

He left.

Her head felt very heavy as she trudged back into the back room. The old lady at the other machine had nodded off a while ago, and Mr. Murray hadn't been there to wake her up, so she hadn't heard any of the conversation. She finished the work that was left on the waistcoat and then took the pile of clothes next to the elderly woman's machine and added it to her own pile. She couldn't find it in her heart to wake her up; she had been growing increasingly sick and Christine knew that she would benefit greatly from some sleep. If her work was left undone, however, Murray would fire her and she would be penniless. So she worked as quickly as she could, blistered fingers nimbly stitching, hemming, and darning. She felt herself staring at the clock as much as her work. When the clock finally struck six thirty, she stood up and stretched, then woke up her partner.

She jumped, looking around frantically. "Sleep?" she said.

"Yes, you were asleep," Christine told her slowly. "Mr. Murray did not see you. Everything is fine. Go on home, you completed most of your work and I can finish what little is left," she lied. She had hardly finished one piece before nodding off.

"No," the woman said stubbornly. "Let me."

"Please," Christine said. "Go home and have something to eat."

The lady smiled. "Thank you. You are a good girl."

Christine smiled at her in return and the woman left. She sat back down and started up the rickety machine again.

No one was here now and she felt a strong desire to sing. She knew not where it came from, but she heeded to the feeling and began to sing an old Swedish tune while she did some of the more complicated work by hand. She felt herself smile through the words; this was her father's favorite song. She could almost hear his old violin accompanying her.

She worked into the late hours of the night, with only thoughts to keep her company.

She wondered if this was the last time she would ever see Raoul. He had said he would come back, but she knew that it must be very tempting for him to leave and start over in a new place. Here in Paris everyone knew that the two of them had broken off their engagement. Although it had not been made official, the two hadn't been seen together for over a month and the famous diva was not wearing her ring. It was only a matter of time before he got tired of waiting for her and moved away to find some girl who understood his world and loved him for his charisma and good humor. She hoped he would move on soon and wouldn't be coming back to beg for her forgiveness. The words he had said today were heart-wrenching…she couldn't believe that he had searched for _her_, an incompetent little diva who was quite replaceable, for a month. "_I almost considered going down to the cellars where that lunatic used to live—do you remember him?_"

She had almost laughed. It was still unbelievable how he hadn't caught on over the months…she must have been very secretive, or, more likely; he was too self-absorbed to notice.

Those months that Erik had graced with his presence had seemed to fly by. During those few moments when he let his guard down, he had been so kind, polite, and even witty. There had been many of those before she had sprung that kiss on him, and sometimes he was open with her more than when he restrained his feelings. But after the kiss, when he had rescued her from Raoul's wrath, he seemed to have made a very conscious effort to hide behind his façade as much as possible. His feelings and thoughts were a mystery now.

A mystery which she longed to uncover.

She wished that for once he wouldn't hide his thoughts and emotions. She wanted to be able to see them as plainly portrayed as she had before. Why she wanted to know so badly was just as much of a mystery as his thoughts, but something in her was longing to know what he thought of her. Was she just a little pathetic girl in his eyes? Or did he see her as an independent individual? Most likely the former, she thought grimly. It always seemed like she was on the verge of tears, wounded, or blushing and stammering while she was around him. Generally she liked to think she could speak proficiently, but when she was talking to him it was as if half of her vocabulary had vanished. It was quite inconvenient.

She sighed as she continued to work, taking a break to wind a scrap of fabric around her bleeding fingers. She missed Erik more than she would like to admit. When he was not in one of his moods he was very stimulating company, full of witty conversation and kindness, and a faithful friend. She also thought of him as a sort of puzzle; just when you thought you had it figured out one piece would change and you would have to start over again. He was always changing, dispositions constantly rotating, and you could never quite figure him out. She would like to understand him one day, but he was such a complex man with a complicated past and ideas and thoughts it seemed nearly impossible.

But if she could get him to open up, that would become an easy task. She would know what his thoughts and feelings were and be satisfied.

But if she never got to see him again she might never know.

She wondered if he knew where she was. After she had the appointment with the managers they had promised to meet in her dressing room, but Mlle. Langille had been there and had prohibited that. Being too ashamed to face him after giving up at the Garnier so easily, she hadn't sought him out. He would undoubtedly be disappointed in her, with good reason, for not searching for a job in which she could sing, even if that meant travelling abroad with no money. His contempt would crush her; ever since she had begun taking lessons from him she had strived to please her angel. So she had avoided him altogether, and missed him more than she ever imagined possible.

Her head ached and her fingers were beginning to grow numb. Deciding that she had best go home, she wearily packed her things away and trudged though the streets, collapsing oon her bed when she finally got home.


	15. Chapter 15

Christine glanced at the clock for the umpteenth time that night. It was getting late and the sun had set. _Another late night_, she thought wearily. Mr. Murray had yet to find a replacement for Mlle. Varens, so consequently she continued to work both the fittings on the floor and the sewing in the back. She had gotten used to it now; it had been a month. A month since Raoul had come into the tailor shop, and she had yet to see him since. She was in a hurry to finish as quickly as possible, for it was a Saturday night and the crowds at the bars were the roughest on this day of the week. The vast workload in front of her sewing machine steadily vanished and she was free to go. Locking the door, she slipped into the night, alone with only darkness to protect her. It was at times like these when she wished for Erik's forbiddingly tall figure to shield her from unwanted men. She was too poor to be prey for robbers, but there had been a few occasions when she had been mistaken for a whore, and even more times when drunkards had tried to take advantage of her, even though they knew she was not working the streets.

The cold night air bit at her fingers and nose, slowly numbing them. The more reclusive alleys were even filled with rowdy men tonight, and she ducked her head and tried to pass through the shadows unnoticed.

That, however, did not go as planned.

When she glanced up from the cracked cobblestone beneath her booted feet she felt a pair of dark eyes following her. The rest of his body was cloaked in the darkness, but his eyes shone eerily from the blackness surrounding them. An involuntary shiver racked her body and she quickened her pace and returned her gaze to the dirty street. She didn't dare look up again, but she could still sense his purposeful gaze boring through her. Her feet carried her past the men safely, though, and she breathed a sigh of relief, praying a silent prayer of gratitude. Breath that she didn't even know she had been holding in escaped her lips in hurried pants. Humming a sweet little melody now that she was past the most dangerous part of her journey, she let her mind wander.

Accordingly, she didn't notice a man leaning on the brick building she was speedily approaching.

He steeped abruptly out of the shadows and Christine shrieked. One of his hands covered her mouth swiftly, but her eyes continued to express her terror as they stared into the dark ones of her captor.

"Quiet, Mademoiselle," he whispered wearily. "I was hoping you might remember me, but it seems I was mistaken."

He unraveled the wrap that covered his head and stepped into the light provided by a flickering streetlamp.

She had seen his face before, yes, but she couldn't match the face with a name…or anything really.

"It has been a while since I last saw you," he admitted. "We have mutual…_friend_. M. Erik."

Memories flooded her mind; watching Raoul and this man try and survive the mirrored torture chamber, the same man conversing with Erik in hushed tones once they were out…

"M. Kahn, is it?" she said, stepping towards him. "I'm sorry, but my memory is a little fuddled."

He nodded the affirmative. "Yes, Mademoiselle. I'm sorry for the improper timing, but could I have a quick word? My house is only a block form here and I would escort you back to your flat if you would like."

She consented with a few words. It was late and she should have deferred their conversation to a late date, but he looked uneasy and troubled so she had agreed. Her curiosity had driven her to acquiesce as well. His anxiety worried her and she knew he would not have talked to her had it not been necessary; he had never before contacted her.

He set off, bidding her to follow him. She stayed close to his side, thankful for how his presence quelled the drunks loitering about in the street. They returned their attention to their bottles of whiskey once they saw the tall, dark man that hovered by her side.

They walked quickly and arrived at his home in a few minutes. Upon entering his house, she was overwhelmed with the rich smell of foreign spices. The interior was richly decorated, but not gaudy, with authentic rugs and furniture. She hardly felt like she was in Paris anymore; like the door she had just walked through had magically transported her to Persia.

"Go ahead and sit down, I'll make some tea," he said, nodding at one of the armchairs that was in the room adjoining the kitchen. She perched on the edge of the chair and he joined her shortly with two steaming cups of sweet smelling tea. She took a tentative sip of the unfamiliar drink and her taste buds danced in delight, relishing the ginger flavor sweetened with a bit of honey.

"Doubtlessly you must be quite confused as to why I asked you to join me here tonight. Again I apologize for my timing; I didn't know when I would see you again and the matters which I discuss with you are…important."

She nodded, encouraging him to continue.

"I was going to ask you if you had heard from Erik recently."

Her interest heightened, she replied, "No, I have not."

He sighed, thoughtfully tracing the rim of his teacup with a slender forefinger. "I thought so. You see, I have not either. He often invites himself to my home," he joked, smiling to relieve some of the tension in the room and easing Christine's worries slightly, "but I have not had the honor to be graced with his presence for some time. The last time I saw him he promised to return the following day but he paid me no visit. After not hearing from him for a week and receiving no answer to my letter, I grew worried and let myself in through the Rue Scribe—a liberty which I do not often take for Erik does not like surprises as you most likely already know.

"He was nowhere to be seen and the lair was an absolute pig-sty, everything coated in a fresh film of dust. Some essential items were missing but he left most in neglect. Obviously he had left. I know he is very well capable of taking care of himself, but the haste in which he left made me concerned for his safety; he has done many rash things when angered."

Christine was frightened. "And—and you haven't heard from him?" she gulped, already knowing the answer. He shook his head gravely. "I—I haven't seen him in a very long while either," she admitted, feeling a hard lump form in the back of her throat. Hot tears stung at her eyes. "I don't even recall how long it has been—two months? Or three?" she felt terrible. "I was…sick," she began with a lie, she really had been wounded from Raoul's fit but Nadir did not need to know that, "and he was helping me to recover. It was an acute illness so I hadn't been to the Garnier for quite some time. My understudy had taken on my role and once I was healthy again I arranged to meet with my managers to secure my position as prima donna again. We met, and they told me that they permanently fulfilled the role. I was planning on keeping my engagement with Erik, but when I went to my dressing room my replacement was there and had already converted the room to hers. I was ashamed, in tears, and had no means to meet him so I went to my flat. I secured a job as a seamstress. Knowing he would be disappointed in me I didn't contact him, for I was too humiliated. And I haven't seen him since…" she tailed off tearfully.

The Persian's dark eyes softened. "Do not worry, Mlle. Daeé. Erik has constantly been pulling things like this. With such an unpredictable temper he always makes rash decisions, but has always been fine. I'll find him," he assured her.

She eyed him doubtfully. "How could you know where he is?"

"I know his most frequented haunts, if you will," he said. "It is only a matter of time before I find him."

She nodded, collected herself, and was about to thank him for the tea and head home—it was quite late now—but a fresh wave of tears streamed from her swollen eyes.

"I just—I'm worried. He leaves for no reason—what if it was not of his own accord? What if someone captured him? He has no reason to leave Paris!" she spluttered, wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands.

"Oh, I do think there was a motive. You see—" here he stopped suddenly, seeming to catch himself before saying something he shouldn't. "Well," he continued evasively "I'll save that one for another day—after I find him."

This did not help to cure her increasing worry and she had to bite her tongue to prevent herself from outright begging to know. Instead she settled with a small nod and said, "I trust you, M. Kahn. I'm just so worried...if anything—if anything happens to him I will be forever tormented by the fact that I left him waiting for me when I shouldn't have, and—oh it's just a mess!" she cried miserable, flinging her hands in the air in distress.

Nadir brought his chair closer to hers and put a hand on her shaking shoulder comfortingly. "Don't fret, Mlle. Daeé. I will find him, I swear."

She nodded, collecting herself. "I'm sorry—I doubt you thought that having me in for tea would involve me crying helplessly did you?"

"Do not think anything of it," he consoled her. "Your account has helped me immensely."

She did not believe it but did not press the matter either. "Thank you for the tea," she said weakly, standing up unsteadily.

"And thank you for obliging me at such an inconvenient time," he replied warmly. "Shall I see you back to your flat?"

"No, it is very kind of you, but I will be fine on my own." She was embarrassed of her current living situation—her measley apartment was In the bad side of town—it was cheap—and the interior was nothing to boast of either. It was shabby and not very well furbished, and it certainly needed a good cleaning that she hadn't had the time to give it.

He was not convinced and she had to persuade him for another good five minutes that she was quite capable of walking a few blocks, and even then he was still rather uneasy about letting her go on her own. She told him that his fretting was only delaying her leaving even more, and he could not contradict that. He helped her with her cloak and saw her to the door with the air of a true gentleman. Parting with the promise to notify her as soon as he caught wind of Erik, he closed the door behind her, still looking apprehensive about the thought of her traversing the dangerous Parisian streets alone.

Thankfully her trip home was rather uneventful—most of the men must have either passed out or found some other girl to entertain them. When she collapsed on her bed after a quick—and cold—bath, she was exhausted. Her mind buzzed with unanswered questions concerning a certain masked man, and the more she thought about it the more worried she became. She tried to clear her mind unsuccessfully, and when sleep finally did rescue her from her agitated thoughts it cursed her with horrible nightmares, all resulting in the end of the life of the man who had occupied her thoughts.

AN: aww, poor Christine. I'm not being very nice to her, am I? She will certainly be rewaded fo going through all of this ^.^


	16. Chapter 16

A week went by with no word from Nadir. With each passing day Christine grew increasingly worried. The saying '_You never know what you've got until it's gone'_ replayed in her head, mocking her for her childishness. Had she discarded her pride and talked to him instead of being too ashamed to face him he might have told him that he was leaving, or she might have prevented him leaving at all...and now she didn't know when she would ever see him, if he was ok, or why he had left...

Sighing, she went back to mending the shirtsleeves in front of her. There was nothing she could do now but wait. Regretting her decisions, no matter how stupid they were, would not do anything to help the problem. Instead of worrying herself to death she took to praying fervently for bother Erik and Nadir that they would return safely— and soon, too. Nadir had promised her that she would find him, and she just had to trust him.

After waiting anxiously for a fortnight, Nadir returned. He surprised her by coming to the shop and pretending that he had torn a hole in the elbow of his suit, and Christine played along, wary of the watchful eye of Mr. Murray. She brought him to the back room when he said he was very particular about the type of thread she used.

Once they were alone, he wasted no time beating around the bush. "I didn't find him," he blurted.

Christine stared blankly at him, mouth slightly ajar.

"I looked in all of his hiding places—inquired about a masked man in almost every hotel in France—contacted some of my acquaintances in Persia—nothing."

She continued to gape at him. Her mind had stopped, and her mouth had frozen in its 'o' shape so even if she had been able to form any literate kind of thought she wouldn't have hardly been able to communicate it.

Struggling to regain her composure, she stuttered, "I-is he l-lost to us? Forever?"

Nadir studied her for a moment, his eyes pensively scanning the planes of her face. He seemed to be choosing his words very carefully. "No. I do not think so. There is something here—something that he cannot live without. And he will not rest until he has it. I am confident that he will be back."

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. "What is it?" she demanded.

He started, and the look on his face proved that the meaning of the words he had spoken had just dawned on him. He had gone too far—said something he shouldn't have.

"Forgive me, Mademoiselle, but I really must leave you. Business calls me away."

"M. Kahn, please just explain to me what you meant—"

"I am truly sorry; I will tell you of any progress I make on recovering him—"

"Please, don't—!" but he had already left, slamming the door closed and that familiar tinkling bell sounded as the little shop shook with the force of the closing door.

She watched him go with increasing despair, and when she could no longer see his retreating form, she finally trudged into the back.

"Are you working back there?" Mr. Murray shouted, suspicion edging its way into his voice.

"Yes, sir," she replied dutifully. She took out her work and began sewing again, but her thoughts were far from her work.

What had Nadir's cryptic words meant? What was in Paris that was so important to Erik? And why was Nadir so adamant in not telling her? These unanswered questions occupied her thoughts as she worked for the next week. Each day was the same as the one before; she waited anxiously for word from Nadir in the workday and worried about Erik at night. She hoped that he might suddenly appear before her, dismiss all her worries with a few words that rationally explained his absence, and they would lapse into familiar companionship once more. But there was never an unexpected visit out of the blue, nor any information on where he might be. She was beginning to lose hope, to realize the inevitable truth that he was not coming back, that he was irretrievable. The thought would edge it's way into her brain and she would shove it out with a bombard of reassuring words—"He was safe—he knew how to take care of himself—he would be back soon—but as the unending days passed her forced naivety began to wane and she began to face the inevitable truth.

She wished she could go look for him herself, but there was no way Mr. Murray would let her off, and she knew from experience how hard it would be to find another job. So she was forced to sit back and wait.

One particular day was worse than the others were. She cut through her finger with fabric scissors and produced a nasty gash that wouldn't clot for half an hour. Mr. Murray was particularly severe and took no pity on her despite the large bandage that she wrapped around her ring finger, demanding that she take on part of her partner's workload in addition to her own. The heating system had finally broken after months of working only half the time, and she could feel herself getting sicker. Her nose ran, her head ached, and she was constantly freezing. Due to the addition of three more blouses, a skirt, and two waistcoats, she did not get out of the shop until very late. It was a Friday and the familiar bar crowds populated the streets, still drinking under the soft glow of the streetlamps. Their bottles were almost emptied and she could tell the men were itching for something to do.

They had never been this rowdy before. Setting down their drinks, they stood and closed in on her.

"Aye, what's a pretty little thing like yourself doing out here all alone, eh?"

"You don't got no man waiting for home do, missy?"

"How much you offering?"

The men stepped out of the shadows, eyes brightened and faces flushed with whiskey. They came from all sides. As Christine turned on the spot, arms protectively hugging herself, she realized she was trapped.

"Please," she begged, her voice raspy and not sounding like her own, "just let me go."

"Not until we have some fun first!"

"I'm not offering any services—"

A tall and burly man stepped forward from the throng of bodies pressed together around her. "Come with me," he whispered hoarsely.

"No, I told you I—" she muttered, trying to push through the crowd.

He reached forward and grabbed her arm roughly, and pulled her towards himself and started to force his way through the mob, catcalls and whistles following him in his wake. He smirked triumphantly at them, as he pulled effortlessly, despite her struggling and cries, back into the darkness, away from the glow of the streetlamps.

Once away from the horde, she lost all hope. She was no match compared to his strength. The cold barrier that closed off his heart would deflect any desperate pleas she made. Any attempts she made at trying to get away were made in vain and only made his hands rougher.

So all she could do was pray for release before it was too late.

As it turned out, the angels were watching out for her that night. Or, rather, a specific angel.

A different pair of hands gabbed her, pulling her back forcefully from the grasp of her captor. They pulled her away and towed her down the streets and to the safety of her apartment. Only once the door had closed did she dare look into her savior's face, but she need not look to know who it was.

A pair of blazing golden eyes met her stare as she raised her gaze to meet them. They burned right though her, filling her with a myriad of emotions, too many to name. They drew her towards their owner, and as she started to lean forward two hands pulled her close to her the body that possessed them. Her own hands wrapped themselves meekly around the thin frame that pressed itself against her. She opened her mouth to speak, but her lip trembled and the tumult of emotions that she had pent up for months freed themselves in a loud, shaky sob. Tears poured relentlessly from her eyes shaky breaths racked her body, and her hands clenched the back of the shirt she had attached herself to.

She allowed those two hands to guide her towards her bed, gently and comfortingly. They picked her up and placed her gently on top, pulling the threadbare covers up around her. She snuggled gratefully into the blankets as one of the hands returned to stroke her back comfortingly.

It was only a matter of seconds until she drifted off into sleep, aided by the rhythmic circles that those hands traced onto her back.

When she woke, Christine's eyes immediately shifted to the clock on her bedside table. Her heart filled with dread as she read the time. It was a quarter to nine—and she was supposed to be at work at eight. She bolted upright, swung her feet off the bed, and dressed as quickly as she could. There was no time for breakfast, so she ran through the kitchen and was almost out of the door when she caught sight of a noticeably large object on her couch.

Upon closer inspection, it turned out to be a person. Sleeping on her couch.

"_Mon Dieu!" _She screamed loudly, and ran into the kitchen, returning with a large knife, holding it protectively in front of her. Her loud shriek awakened the sleeping intruder, who now stood bemusedly before her.

"Oh," she said, flustered. "Erik."

He smirked and chucled warmly, the mellow sound filling the little room.

Her cheeks flushed and she lowered her eyes "I—I'm so sorry, I had forgotten everything about last night and I couldn't tell it was you, and I grabbed the closest kind of weapon I could find—" she spluttered, unable to form a coherent sentence.

"It's quite alright," he laughed. "That is an expected reaction for one who saw a stranger sleeping on their couch."

Her cheeks burned in embarrassment, and she quickly turned and hastened back to the kitchen to put away the knife, cursing herself as she did so. Why did she always make a fool of herself when in Erik's presence? She sighed heavily, remembering that she was already inexcusably late for work.

"I hate to be rude, especially after what you did, but I accidently slept in and now I'm terribly late for work. I must be going," she told him regretfully

He waved his hand dismissively. "Do not worry. I took care of it all. I had a word with your employer and he gave you a few days off."

Christine raised her eyebrows with disbelief. Mr. Murray, voluntarily give her time off? Erik must have made it a point to be particularly forbidding. She wondered what lengths he had gone to, but after brief consideration realized she would rather not know.

"Thank you," she said, and after a brief pause, continued, "I will get started on something for breakfast. I apologize, it might not be considered gourmet, but I'll do the best with what I have."

"I'm sure it will be nothing less than exquisite," Erik praised. "But do not feel obliged to make anything just for my sake."

"It will be no trouble," she assured him.

"Then at least allow me to help you," he protested, following her stubbornly into the kitchen. She knew any other attempts to get him to relax would be futile—and additionally she wanted to see the secrets behind his divine cooking—so she relented.

Upon entering the kitchenette, she immediately regretted this decision. Her kitchen was tiny, and poorly equipped. Erik showed no notice of this, however, and assumed the role of a head chef once he entered, curiously opening cabinets and inspecting their contents with keen eyes.

"Does crepes and fruit sound appealing to you?" he asked her.

She nodded fervently, and they set to work. She felt very inadequate while Erik instructed her on what to do while in her own kitchen, and corrected her mistakes—although he did so very gently, of course. He bustled about the tiny space with a purposed air, and everything he did attributed to the goal of achieving perfection. They didn't talk much while they were cooking, as both were concentrated on the preparation. He worked on the crepes themselves while she made the sauce and cut and arranged the fruit. Once they finished, Christine got out her best china and set the table for the two of them.

They both sat down and took their first bites, complimenting each other on the cooking. Erik had one obligatory forkful for her sake, but left the rest of the plate untouched, as he always did.

It felt so surreal—here she had been worrying about him going missing and not seeing him for two months, but now here he was, sitting sharing breakfast with her. She wanted to ask where he had gone, but did not want to be too nosey and intrusive and put him in a bad temper. Instead she decided to thank him for saving her the night before.

"Again, thank you for rescuing me last night. It seems you have secured the role of my guardian angel as well."

Erik smiled wryly. "You seem to have a knack for always getting yourself in trouble."

"And you seem to have a knack for always being there to protect me."

Erik looked as if he was going to reply to this, but seemed to think better of it and said nothing. They lapsed into silence once more.

Christine decided she would test her luck and inquire about his whereabouts recently.

"If you don't mind my asking…where have you been recently? You disappeared for a while, and I had thought you to be out of town until yesterday."

"Where have I been?" Erik asked indignantly. "_You_ are the one who terminated all contact."

Christine ducked her head in shame. "I know, I just—I—it's a long story," she finished lamely.

Erik nodded slowly, leaning back in his chair. "I have nowhere to be," he said cryptically.

She sighed. This would certainly be a long discussion—with most likely an unfavorable outcome.

AN: Sorry if their are any grammatical errors-I had to rush through the editing a little to get this out today! thanks for R&R-ing :)


	17. Chapter 17

"Could you explain your half of the story first?" Christine pleaded. She didn't want to have to admit her reasons for not speaking to him and hoped that by delaying the confession she might be able to forgo having to explain herself at all.

He regarded her stonily for a moment. His eyes scanned her face analytically, and he did not look too pleased with the request but opened his mouth nonetheless.

"After your conference with Andre and Firmin, I waited for you patiently behind the glass mirror. I saw your little run in with Mlle. Langille, but thought that such a trivial little roadblock wouldn't hinder you. Evidently I was wrong. I waited for you in the other entrances to the cellars, and kept vigilant throughout the whole night and the next day, thinking that you would show. I waited in vain. I figured that you would come if you wanted to see me—that you saw this as a way of escaping me," his face contorted with pain as he spoke. "It was an all too familiar feeling."

Tears pricked at her eyes. Had she known that this would have had such an effect on him, she wouldn't have neglected him. She sincerely regretted it now.

"I gave up waiting after a day or two, and continued to live underneath the opera. It was a very mundane existence, I could barely get anything done. I was listless, distracted…One night I was particularly restless and took a walk in the streets. I happened to pass a certain tailor shop, glanced aimlessly into the window, and saw you in the arms of a certain Vicomte."

Christine winced. She remembered that clearly—Raoul , distressed and helpless, rushing into the shop to plead his case and ask for forgiveness which she did not offer, and then giving him one last embrace before he set off.

"I assumed that you rekindled your love. Then I did what I should have years ago—I fled Paris. I was gone until that meddling Persian brought me back," he muttered. "By coincidence I crossed your path, and saw you in trouble. So I intervened, and here I am," he finished bitterly. She could tell that he wanted to end it with another sentence, but he did not voice it.

"I can explain my half of the story, if you wish?"

He nodded.

She then launched into an explanation over what she had done in the past month or two—how she had been too embarrassed after the meeting with Andre and Firmin, how she had searched for a job, how Raoul had surprised her with his apology, and how much she had—she blushed faintly at this part—missed him—and his music, she hastily added.

He had been silent throughout the whole time she had been talking and now as they continued to sit in silence she realized how much she wanted him to not be angry with her, how much she valued his approval and opinion. She sat perched nervously on the edge of her chair, waiting for him to speak and end her apprehension.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, are you and the Vicomte not engaged?"

Christine tried to decipher his countenance—why did he try so hard to hide ever emotion from her? She thought she had seen a glimpse of something, but she could not quite name it.

"No," she confessed slowly. "I couldn't live with him after…after what he had done."

He nodded slowly, processing the information. "I see," he said vaguely. "So you are…completely unattached?"

"Yes," she breathed her voice barely above a whisper.

Some time during their discussion they had drawn very close to one another. Now he was barely an inch away from her, both leaning in towards each other on the edge of their seats. Suddenly it became very hard to do involuntary things—like speaking, and breathing, and controlling her heart beat and body temperature. His eyes seemed to be burning—like golden flames leaping up from a wildfire. He began to lean in towards her and she felt herself closing the distance between them as well, before he suddenly jumped up from this chair, like he had been electrified, and collected himself, raking a slightly shaky hand through his hair, causing one strand to fall onto his forehead. Air flooded back into the room, and she gulped in deep lungfuls of it. Erik turned around, his back to her.

His lean frame sagged, shoulders slumping, and he took on the air of a totally defeated man. She wondered what could have happened in the past few seconds to change him so drastically.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I don't know what came over me."

It was almost like—almost like—she couldn't even think it. The thought scared her, and she pushed it out of her mind.

"I should go," he muttered suddenly, sweeping past her to collect his cloak and boots.

"No, please," she insisted loudly, following him. "Stay just a little bit longer."

He paused, eyes focused determinedly on the material of his cape which he rubbed thoughtfully between two fingers.

"Please."

He resignedly hung up his coat and set his boots down. "I suppose," he said.

She bit back a triumphant grin, pushing back the last few minutes out of her mind. She hadn't seen her friend for months, and she was not about to lose him again. ''Why don't we sing a duet? It's been ages since I've been able to sing. Or you could borrow my father's violin, if you'd like…"

He nodded slowly. "Yes, I can imagine how much you would like to sing again. Additionally we need to get you ready for your next debut onstage."

She smiled eagerly thinking of her return to the stage. "I'll go get the music."

She brought back some old Swedish folk songs, a few Latin hymns, and some of her favorite duets that they used to sing together when he had first started teaching her from behind her dressing room mirror—almost six years ago.

She flew back into the little living room—like a little child on Christmas morning, eager to receive the gifts that waited underneath an evergreen tree.

"I found a few of my old scores—you can choose whichever you would like," she gushed.

He slowly extended a hand and took the timeworn music from her, leafing through them pensively. A ghost of a smile touched the corner of the visible side of his mouth as he examined the duets. His eyes weren't focused on the sheets in front of him, but something that he alone could only see. At last he chose one out of the stack, reverently and carefully pulling it out from the bundle.

He looked up from the paper and raised an eyebrow, asking silently for her approval.

She looked down at his hands to see which one he had chosen, and immediately felt a wave of emotions hit her.

She could remember the moment clearly—so _very_ clearly…

"_Angel, when-when can we ever sing something together?" Christine asked innocently, brown eyes scanning the surface of the mirror, not quite sure where to focus, as her tutors voice seemed to emanate from all around the room._

"_There is no need for us to be practicing duets. Have I not given you enough to work on? Do you need more things to practice?"_

_She blushed. Yet again she had managed to irritate her Angel. He was so hard to please; she had hoped that he would be delighted with her enthusiasm and readiness to sing a duet with him, but her request had only angered him._

"_No, monsieur," she assured him. "I just wanted to sing with you. To hear what our voices sound like together," she admitted softly, talking to her feet._

"_I see," he said ambiguously. "Look inside the piano bench. Take out the piece by Bizet."_

_She rifled through the music and pulled out his opera bound together by a sleek black ribbon._

"_We will start at measure twelve. You have the pickup. Note the key change in measure thirty. Keep in mind the articulation; it is what gives the piece life."_

_Her heart beat rapidly against her ribcage, threatening to burst through her chest. She started the duet unsteadily, her voice warbling a little on the high whole note at the end of the first phrase. Within moments, however, she managed to calm herself. She had just sunk into a music-induced stupor when suddenly another voice intertwined with hers._

_His voice was truly that of an angel's. The perfection of his technique and the amount of pure emotion he poured into the song made it sound truly heavenly. When they sang together, blending harmonies together, it created such a beautiful sound she felt her knees grow weak and her eyes sting with tears at the beauty of the sound that they were able to create._

_The angels wept that night—the Angel of Music, precisely. He wept over his own angel, who he had sung with so temptingly, but who was still so untouchable. As much as he loved her, she did not know fully who he was—an demon in the guise of an angel, who dared to look upon what he could not have. All he could do is hope that this seraph would stoop down from heaven and take him lovingly under her wing. _

This time they sang the same song it was even more breathtaking and magnificent, if that was even possible.

As their voices climbed to reach the height of the crescendo, she realized she had never heard anything so glorious in her life. She tried to push all thoughts out of her mind and just enjoy the bliss that their voices created. It was truly unlike anything she had ever heard.

As the last note died from their throats, she was speechless.

She tried to fathom what had made this time so different from any of the others times they had sang together. At first she supposed that it could have been because they hadn't seen each other in so long, or because of how much she had improved over the years, but yet she knew that was the wrong answer. She looked at him, trying to figure out what about he had changed over time that had made him so different, that had made their duet so different…

She looked up from her music, meeting his gaze which had already been fixated on her. She stared into those golden eyes of his, trying to piece their owner together. Her eyes roamed over his face, his mask, his tall gangly frame. He remained unflinching under her gaze and returning those exploratory gazes.

What was so different about him? What had changed about him to make him have this effect on her—now she could hardly string together a cohesive sentence while standing before him, nor return his gaze without blushing. When had he lost his intolerable temper, when had he started to be so kind to her, when had he stopped being so condescending, when had he started to be so—so—

She took a deep breath and tried to regroup her thoughts.

The more she thought about it, the more she realized that this hadn't been such a recent change. She could remember how helpful and kind he had been to her when he was helping her heal from the injuries she had acquired from Raoul, how he had always been so thoughtful to her while they were working on his opera. She remembered when she had sprung a kiss on him, with—at the time—no idea why she did. And the time that she had sang for him, instead of Raoul, and it had sounded so_ real_, so full of passion.

Everything was coming together, and the more she thought about it the clearer the answer became.

How had she been so blind? How had she not seen who Erik had become? Something must have happened within him over the years that she hadn't seen him—of course, he was still the same moody and irritable Erik, but at the same time he had become so much more thoughtful and caring. His company was something she yearned for. When she had lost contact with him she had missed him dearly, thinking that she only missed her relationship with a good friend.

But now she realized that it was so much more.

She had been unconsciously comparing all men to him—including Raoul when they were engaged, and afterwards any man she met she instantly held him up to Erik to see if they were equal. She would think to herself how _Erik _was so much more of this than the man in question, or how Erik could do something more better than any of the men that she compared him to. But none of them could ever compete with Erik, who seemed, in her eyes…perfect.

This realization came so fast, she could hardly react. All these thoughts flew through her mind in a matter of moments, and then she knew.

She—dare she say it?—loved him.

AN: I hope this makes up for the long time I've left you hanging….?


	18. Chapter 18

Once Christine realized that she had feelings for Erik, everything was so much clearer.

_That_ was she kissed him, why she sang so beautifully for him, missed him so much while he was gone, couldn't keep him off her mind—it was so obvious, why had she not noticed it before?

But with those questions answered, new ones arose in their place.

What were his feelings? Had he been as oblivious to hers as she had been, or had he perceived all? Was there a chance that he could ever love her again or had she dashed her chances of winning his affection forever?

Now more than ever she regretted the choice she had after the performance of Don Juan Triumphant, when she had chosen Raoul over Erik. What a mistake that had been.

She supposed that she had always known that Erik was truly the only one she could ever love. However, at the time, she had been young, innocent, and afraid of Erik's power over her and the intensity of his emotions. In many ways she had still been a little girl, and she had not been ready for such a passionate relationship. But he had always, doubtlessly, been the only man she could ever love. She hadn't ever been truly in love with Raoul, just an infatuation that hadn't lasted the test of time.

So…what would she do now? Should she blurt out the truth? Or wait for him to make a move? It was unlikely that he would do so. After the catastrophe that had ensued the last time he was so open with her, it was doubtful that he would ever be so open with her again. She had hurt him deeply. It looked as if she would have to be the courageous one and put herself out there.

If only she could just have some _hint_ as to where his feelings lied, so that she wouldn't make a complete and utter fool of herself by telling him how she felt, and then get harshly rejected. But trying to understand him was like trying to understand a foreign language; incomprehensible. She was at a loss about what to do next, so for the time being she decided she would keep her feelings to herself.

Erik was a frequent visitor now, and she would often come home to a steaming cup of freshly made soup and a hot bath already drawn. She hadn't given Erik a key, but of course he had found some way to get in—but she didn't mind. His company was something she longed for during the long, dreary work hours. She would often have a lesson with him—he had managed to bring in a baby grand, yet another miracle that he was able to pull off—after dinner, working late into the night. She didn't mind however, frankly she would rather spend time with him than sleep—which was saying something; it was a cherished rare blessing when she was able to close her eyes and drift into a blissful dreamland.

He had been talking recently of wanting to get her career back on track, moving to a new country to do so, and she could not agree more. She didn't want to have to admit to him that there was no way she could afford to move yet, so she just covered it up with weak little lies about how much she loved Paris, even though she would really love to go to Italy or Spain. But it seemed that she wouldn't get that luxury for a while. Erik had already done so much for her; she didn't want him to be paying for all her expenses as well.

One night, in particular, he stressed his wishes very strongly. They had just finished a successful lesson and he fed off of the achievements of the past few hours.

"I hate to see your talent wasted while you toil away in some tailor's shop," he muttered bitterly as she got out a pair of a bachelor's socks she was darning. She shrugged indifferently, trying not to show how much she hated it there. She honestly wanted him to whisk her away to Italy or some exotic city, but until she saved up the money she would have no way to afford it.

"You surely can't _enjoy_ working there?" he asked incredulously, led on by her shadowy answer.

"No," she admitted. "But it pays the bills."

He was silent for a while, carefully choosing his words. "Surely, you must know that I could support the both of us."

She nodded. "Yes, but I don't want to make you have to pay for all my expenses. I don't want to be a burden to you."

"You aren't a burden, Christine!" he cried exasperatedly. "You're anything but a encumbrance—you're—" he stopped short. "Will…will you please consider it? For my sake?"

Her heart hammered against her ribcage, thumping wildly as his words reverberated in her mind. "_Anything but an encumbrance…for my sake…_" what could he have meant? For _his_ sake? Did he just want the best for his prodigy as any tutor would, or was there something more? Did he truly care for—

She stopped short. She was reading way too much into this.

He was just a kind man who cared for his student and wanted her to have the same success as she had four years ago. That was all.

Realizing she had been staring blankly at his knee for an uncomfortably long while, she quickly adjusted her gaze to his face and stuttered "Yes, I'll—I'll consider it. Once the finances are available."

He was practically pleading with her, begging her to let him pay her way to Italy. "They are available, Christine! I can pay your way there and back a tenfold. Don't you want to return to your true home, the stage? To sing for multitudes of people? To fall in love with music again?"

"I never stopped," she whispered. But she was not talking of music, of course.

Erik did not pick up on this, and continued to talk of moving. "Then go with me," he replied, his voice just as soft as hers.

"I can't," she said.

Even though she would have loved to go with him, it was just too complicated. What if they had a falling out and he left her, or if something happened to him and he was unable to support her? She could only speak French and Swedish fluently, and only bits and pieces of English and Italian. There would be no way for her to find any type of work, and hence no way for her to return to her homeland or France. She would be hopeless and alone in an alien country.

He looked as if he wanted to continue to plead with her, but he turned away instead, his back to her and head lowered.

"I thought you were still passionate about m—music. About music," he stuttered.

"I am," she assured him, stepping around him to face him again. "I just can't go until I am able to stand alone on my own two feet."

"I promise, Christine, I will provide for you, if you'll just let me."

"No, Erik," she sighed regretfully. "Not now. But someday."

He nodded dejectedly. "You had a good lesson today. I'll leave you now if you'll excuse me."

And after that, he didn't speak a word of her career again—for a while anyway. But she could still tell he wasn't content with her current job—but neither was she. They continued to ignore the elephant in the room and go on with her lessons, even though it was still weighing on their minds.

Christine's work carried on as usual, however the old lady that she worked with grew increasingly ill. She took on her coworkers load as well as her own, too soft to see the old woman lose her income and be subjected to beg and, eventually, die in the streets. She had gathered that the woman took care of her deceased son's child with the assistance of his wife. The knowledge that she was helping someone, even if it wasn't a major contribution, made the hours seem to pass faster. And additionally, when she thought of the man that would be waiting for her at her apartment, the time flew by.

A fortnight after her revelation she began to wonder if perhaps spending so much time with him was a good thing. Of course she loved him and his company, but she was beginning to doubt whether he would ever return her feelings. She could tell that he didn't care about her in that way, and it was unlikely that he ever would. So she tried to slowly deatach herself from him…

But one did not pick whom they loved.

AN: Soooooo sorry it has been eons since I have updated! I hope someone is still reading this hahaha. Anyways, life just kind of happened and I have barely had any time to breathe, let alone write. My schedule is (kind of) clearing up now, so back to regular updates I promise! Thanks for the support!


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